


To Seek A Love: Book 3

by Masked_Man_2



Series: To Seek A Love [3]
Category: Othello - Shakespeare
Genre: Bawdy Humor, Cliffs of Insanity, Dark, Dick Jokes, Domestic Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Flirting, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied mental illness, Insanity, Love, Madness, Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Married Couple, Married Life, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Mild Comic Relief, Military Politics, Military Ranks, Multiple Personalities, Multiple Relationships, Nightmares, Originally a roleplay, Physical Abuse, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Relationship(s), Roleplay, Romance, Sex, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Humor, Shakespearean Language, Sleep Deprivation, Some Fluff, Suicide Attempt, Sympathy for the Devil, Tragic Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Twisted love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension, Violence, Violence Against Friends, War, Wartime Setting, domestic abuse, gratuitous greek, implied sex, newlyweds, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 90
Words: 29,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: Welcome to the third and final book! Unfortunately, Jess and I never actually finished writing this one (the chapter after the final one was supposed to be hers and she just kinda...disappeared off the face of the planet). We still had a lot of fun, and even if the project never gets taken up again, it was a great way to spend a year of writing.That being said, if anyone reading this is really into it and wants to see more, hit me up. Jess and I had a few humourous plans for where the story might go (including, but not limited to: Roderigo being promoted to ensign, Emilia getting pregnant, etc), but nothing definite.The ending of book 2 left us both reeling a bit, so when Jess sent me this chapter, I just about died laughing. Enjoy!
Relationships: Bianca/Cassio, Desdemona/Othello, Emilia/Iago, Roderigo/Bianca
Series: To Seek A Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/691746
Comments: 52
Kudos: 5





	1. Perfectly And Blessedly Peculiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the third and final book! Unfortunately, Jess and I never actually finished writing this one (the chapter after the final one was supposed to be hers and she just kinda...disappeared off the face of the planet). We still had a lot of fun, and even if the project never gets taken up again, it was a great way to spend a year of writing. 
> 
> That being said, if anyone reading this is really into it and wants to see more, hit me up. Jess and I had a few humourous plans for where the story might go (including, but not limited to: Roderigo being promoted to ensign, Emilia getting pregnant, etc), but nothing definite. 
> 
> The ending of book 2 left us both reeling a bit, so when Jess sent me this chapter, I just about died laughing. Enjoy!

Everything in this city was perfectly and blessedly peculiar, Roderigo thought to himself, still bemused by how different Cyprus was from Venice. He had never been quite so far from home; he was sure of it. Truly, if it hadn’t been for... _ her _ , Roderigo didn’t think he ever would have left. It had always been his plan to stay in Venice for all of his life, marry a lovely Venetian woman, and spend the rest of their days together in a proper Venetian house. He had never taken into account that the lovely Venetian woman in question would ever  _ leave  _ the city of his birth and his allegiance. Of course, he had also never taken into account that the lovely Venetian woman with whom he fell in love would marry some foul barbarian.

Certainly, Cyprus was strange! They all spoke some foreign language that Roderigo thought he might have been tutored in at some point, but had since forgotten. They all dressed in a different style of clothing. The buildings were simpler, the houses less extravagant; clearly this city was no bustling hub of urbanity as Venice was, and consequently, Roderigo felt out of place.

His false beard, which he had donned in order to disguise himself, didn’t do much to help the fact, either, for it was too itchy and made Roderigo feel outlandish. Iago had insisted that no one would be able to recognize him with the false beard, however, because “anyone who yet knows you, Roderigo, knows that if you were faced with the task of growing your own beard, you would be invariably incapable of doing so, and therefore,  _ with  _ a beard, no one will even  _ suspect  _ that you are you”. It was not a compliment (Roderigo was not fool enough to overlook  _ that _ ), but sadly, it was truth. Roderigo knew it for certain--he had attempted the task beforehand in slighted indignity, before realizing that Iago was right and abashedly deciding to go along with the original suggestion.

At present, Roderigo was, most unfortunately, lost. It was not anything particularly new, as Roderigo had often found that he was somewhat directionally challenged, and in a place so bizarre and so far from his own home, it was to be expected. But now Roderigo had lost track of his steps, and he was no longer sure of the location of the inn at which he had been staying. It was a long time until nightfall, certainly, but he would rather find his bearings sooner than later and avoid having to roam about at night where there might be thieves or scoundrels hiding in the dark… Indeed, Roderigo did not trust this peculiar city.

After some guideless wandering, Roderigo sighed and stopped where he stood, scratching his fake beard in mild distress. He had no idea where he was, truly. He shrugged to himself and looked about.

Some paces away, there stood a quaint little house. It was very nice-looking, and Roderigo cocked his head slightly as he looked at it, causing his blond locks to sway with the motion. Surely there could be no harm in such a delightfully charming little house… Something about it was quite inviting; it almost seemed to beckon toward him. Perhaps there was someone inside who could give him directions...provided that whoever it was knew how to speak a language he could actually understand.

Ah, well. There was no harm in it. Roderigo approached the lovely little house in long-legged stride and knocked on the humble door.

  
  



	2. My Humble Abode

The sudden, sound knock was so wholly unexpected that Bianca pricked herself with her needle, staining the shawl she had been embroidering with bright red drops of her own blood. Cursing roundly, she threw the sullied thing down in disgust, hoping that whoever might have had the audacity to call upon her in the middle of the day had good reason for doing so. 

...Then again...perhaps it was that Michael Cassio, come to beg her services once more, as he had done all three nights of his deployment here. O, but he was a handsome one: tall and dark and gallant, kind and gentle and  _ wonderfully _ adept with his tongue. Yes, he had done well in choosing her to be his favored one, for she could  _ easily _ become accustomed to his caresses...she even thought that she could, perhaps, acclimate to the life of a lieutenant's wife. Enamored of her as he seemed, it was not so strange a guess.

Feeling a bubbling excitement overtake her earlier irritation, Bianca strode to the door with a new vigor, opening it wide and preparing Cassio's name on her tongue with relish....

....It was not Cassio. The man who stood outside her door now was one she had ne'er seen before. Slender and soft-looking and of middling height, with long, ostentatiously curled blonde locks and a beard so obviously false it was humorous.... Well. He was certainly interesting, she would give him that....even if he did look rather like a lost, kicked little dog at that moment, all wide brown eyes and pouting mouth. 

  
"Save you,  _ signor _ ," she said coyly, loving the way the Italian word rolled off her tongue. "What is it that brings you to my humble abode?"


	3. Save You, Signer

The brown eyes brightened at the sound of spoken Italian. Roderigo, growing ever homesick, had begun to miss the lilting, trilling sounds, and automatically he felt some slight degree of kindred toward the unknown woman simply because she had spoken in his tongue. She was a pretty lady, though her attire seemed a little...brazen, but Roderigo had seen his fill of strange clothing in this city and dismissed the strangeness of hers, lest he make his foreignness even more obvious.

“I beg pardon, madam,” he said politely, tipping his head to her in a slight bow (he had to clap his fingers immediately to his chin after doing so, for the action caused his beard to loosen) and offering a friendly smile as recompense for her usage of his language. “You see, I am not of this city, and I seem to have lost my way. I am looking for the...”

Roderigo trailed off uncertainly as he drew a blank. Oh, dear. He suddenly realized that he had forgotten the name of the inn, seeing as the name was in Greek, and therefore had no meaning attached to it that Roderigo could use to remember it. He struggled in vain, for a few fruitless moments, to recall the name of the inn, or perhaps the first syllable of it,  _ anything _ , but could not. His cheeks flushed a flustered pink as he stood there at a loss, his lips still parted in hopes that he would remember the name and be able to speak it as soon as it reentered his mind.

With even more embarrassment, Roderigo realized that he had been staring at the woman for the entire time since he had stopped speaking. He exhaled awkwardly, deciding that this encounter had not begun very well.

  
  



	4. Delightful Little Man

The poor, nameless fool was quite befuddled; he stood there with his mouth agape as he tried to recall the name of...wherever it was he was headed. Bianca could not help but laugh at his expression, and boldly laid one slim brown hand to rest on his velvet-swathed arm, eyeing him with pity. 

"My poor  _ karakiozi _ ," she said, her warm voice dipping low to caress this handsome little fop in its seductive embrace. "I am sure I do not need to tell you it is not polite to stare, especially at a lady...even one of my kind. But I think it is not my tender touch you desire, but directions,  _ nei _ ? You were going somewhere, I think, and became lost, and now need help.  _ Parakalo _ , tell me what place you wished to go to, and I may tell you its name, and how to get to it...if it pleases me." 

...And she smiled then, a slow, sensuous smile, watching mirthfully as her poor lost man stammered and stared. O, but he would be a delightful little man to tempt and play with. There was no doubt in her mind there....

  
  



	5. To Be Toyed With

Goodness, but the lady was forward! Was she trying to flirt with him? Within mere seconds of their meeting? Undoubtedly, these Cypriot women were audacious, if all of them were like this! Her coquettish mannerisms bewildered Roderigo even more. On top of the fact, her Italian was not quite perfect and she weaved words that he could not understand into her speech. Considering all of these circumstances, Roderigo felt much more lost than he had before he had knocked on the door.

“I-I was looking for an inn,” Roderigo stammered, trying to seem as though he was not stammering. Looking down, he removed the slender fingers from his arm gingerly and shifted his weight antsily from foot to foot. “I cannot remember its name, however. And I am quite sure there is not only one inn in all of Cyprus.”

He realized he was looking at the ground in a way that made him seem cowardly, and he forced himself to look back up again and meet the woman’s vibrant eyes. “And, I am sorry for staring. It was discourteous, as you said.” Feeling as though he had not said quite enough, and feeling as though  _ she _ was now staring at  _ him _ , he managed to feebly squeak, by way of apology, “I did not mean to make you feel odd by staring...you are quite beautiful.”

And oh, dear again! Roderigo winced inwardly, wishing he had thought of something else he could have said, because certainly to say such a thing was to encourage her flirtatious toying.

  
  



	6. Little Boy Lost

"Beautiful, am I?" Bianca asked, sidling closer to her visitor, an alluring smirk playing about her full lips. "Well, well. Keep speaking like that, and I may yet forgive you for so boldly staring, good  _ signore _ ."

Seeing his goggling eyes, she abruptly let go of him, throwing back her head with a bright, sparkling laugh as she did.  _ Theos _ , but he was afraid! Her poor lost man was frightened by her sultry glances, her bold touches and her brazen words. 

He was like a little lovesick boy, she thought delightedly: floundering and unsure and inept, with the naivety of one half his age and the sorrow of one much older...though she did not suppose that that sorrow had any grave cause. Spurned affection, perhaps. It would not surprise her in the least. 

"So..." she continued, her voice still high with mirth. "You are lost,  _ nei _ ? This inn you speak of, you know not where it is? There are many inns here,  _ signore, poli' ksenodohi'os. _ What does yours look like? I cannot tell you where it is if you do not even tell me that!"

  
  



	7. The Ground? The Floor!

“Oh. Well,” Roderigo said effetely, realizing she was right. “Erm...I believe there is a fountain in front of it. Yes. A fountain with a statuette of a cherub. Or...perhaps it was a dolphin…? I think it was one of those; I’m  _ pretty _ sure...” As the lady edged closer and closer to him, Roderigo subconsciously edged away sidelong, his back pressing against the doorframe until suddenly-- _ oof! _ \--there was no doorframe left. He lost his balance, stumbling backward--and now he found himself on the ground, looking up at her.

The ground? The  _ floor _ ! When he had inched away, he had inched his way around her so that now  _ he _ was just barely inside the house and  _ she _ was on the doorstep, watching him. To make matters worse, Roderigo’s face felt a lot barer. The false beard had completely loosened in his fall, and now it lay awkwardly over his doublet.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled awkwardly, scrambling both to hide the beard behind his back as well as stand, and being so maladroit on both accounts that each attempt was a bungling failure.

  
  



	8. A Shoddy Disguise

Good God...this man could have made a living as any court fool! When he edged around her, as though her bold advances were some strange disease to be avoided, she could not help but laugh...and her chuckles quickly turned to full-blown roars when he fell, knocking his usurped beard loose from his visage as he did so.

"You must be more careful,  _ vlakas _ !" she exclaimed, extending one graceful hand to help him up. "My floors are old, they are; they cannot take so much abuse! And I do not think your disguise pleases them, besides, for it has been swept clean off...." 

Daringly, she stepped forward again, to teasingly brush the dust and sand from the man's now-soiled doublet, grinning all the while. She stooped to retrieve the beard, as well, her smile gaining a taunting edge when the man tried vainly to grab for it, held behind her back as it was.

  
"A man in hiding, are you?" she asked lowly, moving about him with dragging dancer's steps. "Why else would you wear such a shoddy disguise? I know where your dolphin inn is,  _ signore _ ...but first I think you will tell me your name, and where you are from, and why you hide, before I can give this back to you and send you on your way. It would not do to have a criminal in my home."


	9. An Owed Favor, A Borrowed Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA Roderigo is a hot mess.

“I can do that myself, thank you,” Roderigo muttered by way of retort, batting away her hands from his chest with a kitten’s strength. What a predicament this was turning out to be. He never should approached this flirtatious lady--unfortunate as his original circumstance had been, it was still better than what he suffered  _ now _ at the hands of this coquette! And now she refused to give him the directions and the disguise until he revealed his name and purposes.

He considered simply making a run for it, dashing past the woman and escaping through the open door. He could find a new disguise, one that was so much better at concealing his identity that, even if he did run into this lady again, she would never recognize him. The consideration of this course of action comforted Roderigo; it seemed to be the safest decision to make…

But was he not a man? To seek escape was craven, indeed! This type of behavior was exactly what Iago always found occasion to mock in him, and perhaps Roderigo was, in the deepest part of himself,  _ tired _ of running away. After all, was he not  _ here _ , in Cyprus, to win the heart of the lady he loved, against all odds? He  _ was _ ! And certainly, such a man did not run away at the slightest hint of discomfort!

All of these musings flashed across Roderigo’s mind in a second, and he resolved that, this time, he would act as Iago would. He would be like Iago, cunning, astute. He would be like Iago, the mastermind behind their allied revenge plot. He would be like Iago; not clumsy, bumbling Roderigo, but Iago!

...Perhaps he convinced himself a little too well.

“My name is Iago,” Roderigo said.

Wait… _ what _ ?

“O-of Venice,” Roderigo added, even as he panicked inwardly. Well,  _ now _ what? Roderigo was not so much without dignity that he would correct himself, causing the mirthful lady to think that he was so much a fool that he didn’t even know his own  _ name _ . And besides, it was too late to make amends now, and there was no way to turn back the clock...!

“And I have come here in pursuit of the lovely woman who is the object of my love,” he stated grandly, trying to convince himself that he was still in control. “I have followed her to this city, and I intend to court her as my own.” Roderigo nodded resolutely, picturing Desdemona’s angelic features as he spoke.

...Certainly it was no matter that Roderigo had borrowed Iago’s name. After all, Iago had borrowed so much more from  _ him _ \--Roderigo had entrusted to him a great sum of wealth that would be used to the effort of wooing Desdemona. It was simply an owed favor...was it not?

  
  



	10. NOT Iago Of Venice

"Iago of Venice?" Bianca repeated incredulously, staring at the weak-armed, foppish, bumbling blonde before her with mistrustful eyes. "And you are here seeking your love, whom you intend to  _ court? Ti les re malaka? _ !"

Alas, the poor fool was so flustered he knew not even his own  _ name! _ For Bianca had heard of a different Iago of Venice, from her Cassio. A soldier, he had said. An ensign. Lithe. Wiry. Rather tall, with sun-darkened skin and pale, flinty ashen eyes. Not pale, soft, and high-voiced, with a child's stammer and rich clothes. Not a man who would trip and fall into a courtesan's home and prattle ardently about his search for unrequited love (for the man in question had a wife, according to her handsome lieutenant...a wife of whom Cassio spoke rather fondly, actually). Not at all.

"Your lies are as easily cast aside as your beard,  _ signor _ ," she remarked, her full, inviting lips turning up into a demeaning sneer. "Even if I did not know of the man you claim to be, your nervous twitchings would be warning enough. I know not your real name, but I know it is not  _ Iago of Venice _ . Prithee bear some charity to my wit!"

  
  



	11. Do Forgive Me?

At this moment the woman’s once-playful gaze had transformed into something so frightening that Roderigo let out a mousy squeak. How could she have known that he did not speak true? Unnerved by her as he was, Roderigo would not have been surprised if the lady was some kind of clairvoyant or some strange enchantress. Her vibrant eyes, full of fire now, held him in a spellbound terror.

“R-Roderigo,” Roderigo peeped miserably, wanting nothing more than to shield himself from her piercing stare, for the lady was surely fiercer than any wild beast. “My name is Roderigo.” An octave higher, now: “I am sorry, madam! I simply misspoke; I have a comrade called Iago and his name came to mind... I did not mean to deceive you, or anyone!” And finally, the faintest squeal: “Do forgive me.”

He hoped that Iago would never catch wind of this incident. Surely he would not be pleased to hear that Roderigo had attempted to masquerade in his name, accident as it was… Oh dear, but this  _ was _ turning out to be a most unfortunate day! Roderigo began to wish once more that he were safely back home in Venice.

  
  



	12. Wondrous Pitiful

The forlorn expression upon this man's--  _ Roderigo's _ \-- visage was so great, and so reminiscent of that of a kicked blind puppy's, that Bianca could not help but feel pity for him...though, in faith, she could not help but laugh, either! What sort of man was this, that squealed like a pig and shivered like a lost little girl, in the presence of a bold woman? Truly, 'twas pitiful, wondrous pitiful!

"Roderigo..." she said slowly, savoring the name on her tongue. "Of  _ course _ I forgive you,  _ agapi _ . How can I not, when you act so afraid of one who means you no harm?"

Her apology was sincere...but truly, she liked intimidating the boy so well that she began to walk about him again, placing one hand on his poorly toned chest and drawing it down his stomach tantalizingly. "You mean not to deceive, no," she whispered, grinning at him once more. "But,  _ signor _ Roderigo, I have heard of this comrade whose name you have stolen, and I think, from what I know, that he will not be so amused as I that you have taken this name. I may well tell you how to get to your inn just so you can hide from him!"

She was speaking false, of course. Verily, she had never met this man Iago, and knew not what sort of man he was...but she had Roderigo in her thrall now, and felt that he, in his skittish state, might believe aught that passed from her lips...so be it. In any case, she could inveigle his desired knowledge before him a bit longer...for her own amusement, see.

  
  



	13. Wanton Games

“N-now see here,” Roderigo declared, though the prospect of an angry Iago struck panic into his heart, for certainly he  _ would _ be displeased. “Y-you mean to play games with me!”

He tried not to think about what might happen if Iago heard of this event, but it was hard to tell himself what to think and what not to think with this lady touching him every which way as if she had a right to do so. With a little more resolve than he had had the first time (though not much, for still he felt threatened by her) he grandly cast her hand off of his abdomen once again.

“And, I say, for  _ heaven’s _ sake, stop  _ exploring _ me with your wanton fingers!” he cried, stamping his foot down, embodying more puerile conniption than indignant frustration. “It’s really  _ quite _ untoward; don’t you know that? And speaking of ill manners,” he added huffily, “since I gave you  _ my _ name, you might as well give me yours, so that I may know whose wondrous charity it is that I owe. Truly, you have no right to touch me like that when I don’t even know who you are!”

  
  



	14. Remember It Well

"You would not say that," Bianca replied, her tone turning the slightest bit dark, "if you knew what sorts of men I had touched with these hands, far more intimately, knowing even less." Though she hated to spoil the tenor of this brazen encounter...he left her no choice, indignant as that callous remark made her. 

Though she, as a courtesan, tended to associate with richer gentlemen, spurning the low, filthy dregs of male society for those more loose and desperate than she...she, too, had had her share of unpleasant customers. Men like Michael Cassio were a rare breed, and this fool Roderigo...he knew nothing of hardship or want. How could he be expected to understand the moral blow that was selling one's own body?

_ O, skase _ ! she chided herself sharply.  _ Enough of these grim thoughts; they do not suit you well. He calls you wanton, you give him what he can take. Wanton, indeed! I'll not endure it. _ True though it was...but no matter. Judgement was blind, they said....

"You call me untoward?" she asked cheekily, recovering her sultry humor swiftly, pressing up against him again with no heed for his whimpers of protest. "But surely you know, good  _ signor _ , that all Cyprus is bold and free. We do not care for...petty societal restraints." Those had been Cassio's words, once, and she relished the look of shock on Roderigo's face at her utterance of them. "Complete  _ arhidia _ . Emotion rules us here."

And when Roderigo looked too befuddled to comprehend aught else she spoke, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, " _ Me léne _ Bianca. Remember it well."

  
  



	15. Bianca

Bianca. It was a lovely name, both mysterious and mystical. It was beautiful, the way she let the name ride her breath from her lips, rolling slightly over her tongue with the first couple of syllables. He caught her name; that was all he understood, for Roderigo was too unnerved to listen to anything else she said. Though she was still being friendly to him (indeed, much too friendly!), now that he had seen savageness in her eyes, he knew that that was what lurked beneath that vivid gaze of hers. He could not help but feel an instinct of self-preservation whenever she came too near to him.

“Bianca. A splendid name,” he atoned hurriedly, ducking away from her touch (this time he very deliberately aimed for the doorway so that he would not force himself even further into her house). “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Bianca,” he said in a finalizing tone that tremored but a little. “Perhaps now you will decide to point me in the right direction of my lodgings, as was my original request?”

She still had his disguise clutched between her fingers, true. But that was no matter; Roderigo could find a different disguise. He simply had to get away from this madwoman before she made him even more the fool…!


	16. Transparent As Glass

Though she could not say the same of the hapless Roderigo, it could never be said that Bianca was not well versed in social graces; she knew a dismissal when she heard one. Still, the boy's fear was so apparent, so very out of place and  _ amusing _ , that she laughed at him again as he tripped out the door...although, in faith, she was a bit vexed that he dared think her mad....

"You are transparent as glass, you realize?" she asked him, raising her sculpted brows meaningfully. "I assure you,  _ agóri _ , I am not the  _ palavos _ you think I am...and if I was, you would still be the bigger fool. But no matter. As for your lodgings..." Trailing off, she moved forward once more, placing a parting kiss on his slightly plump cheek before moving back into the airy light of her home. "Walk to the end of this street, turn to your right, pass a statue of three fish made of pink marble, and turn left slightly to walk into the inn. I hope you can find your chamber from there."

Of course, she had given him directions to a different inn than his sought-after one...but he needn't know that.

  
  



	17. Directions, Directions

Roderigo sputtered vainly as she laid the kiss down, trying to find some protest to voice, but before any could come to mind the deed had been done. He felt himself blush furiously at the gesture, but not having anything more to say, he simply nodded his thanks curtly and quickly began to walk away. After he had reached some distance he broke into a bit more of a run, thoroughly flustered as he was.

End of the street. Then left. No, right. Then he would find a statue of three fish. And then right.  _ No _ , left. Or perhaps it was right, after all?

He slowed his steps as he reached the end of the street, looking both left and right with wide, helpless eyes. A statue? Ah,  _ there _ was a statue… Looking left, he saw a small courtyard, and in the midst of it was a statuette of three pink fish, chasing one another in an upward spiral. With hesitant steps he entered the courtyard, seeing vendors about him selling their wares, but mostly advertising them in loud, heralding Greek. The din confused Roderigo even more.

Was it left? Was it right? He suspected that Bianca had told him  _ left _ , but he  _ looked _ left, and he didn’t see his inn. Had he taken a wrong turn? Certainly, there behind him was that statue of the fish, and Roderigo looked ahead to his left once more, as if his surroundings might suddenly transform themselves to suit his expectation. Had the lady given him the correct directions…? He began to doubt himself more and more with each passing second.

She  _ must _ have given him the right directions, Roderigo thought doggedly, since she lived here, and most certainly she knew her way around. He simply must have followed her directions wrong, or else misheard them... 

“I beg pardon,” Roderigo said, turning to a woman who stood examining fruit at one of the stands. “Can you tell me where I might find the…”

He  _ still _ didn’t know the name of the inn.

“...th-the inn that has the dolphin statue?” he finished awkwardly. The woman looked at him quizzically, said something in Greek, and shook her head to indicate that she did not understand. She promptly turned back her inspection of the fruit, placing her hand on the head of a bouncing child.

Roderigo sighed and turned around slowly. He would have to seek out Bianca again.

  
  



	18. What He Had Done

...They had been allowed to remain in the chamber, at least. Dismal though it was, that in itself was a small blessing....

Unable to think, unable to feel, barely able to walk for despair, Iago sank down onto the narrow bed once again, face in his hands as he tried-- to no avail--- to fully comprehend what had just now befallen him...to say nothing of Emilia.... 

God in Heaven, Emilia.... He had no wish to see her now, wanted to keep her ignorant of the dark things that had transpired...if only for a little longer. Useless effort, that; she had known it would happen, and had accepted it. 

Never mind that she had pleaded for his case, begged Othello for clemency. Never mind that  _ she _ had been the one first wronged. Never mind that Iago deserved this sentence a thousand times over... _ gross misconduct and deliberate dishonesty... _ and more, besides. His sins were too great to number....

What did that matter? Was not  _ he _ the one wronged now; was not he the one who suffered ( _ penance for your crimes! _ , conscience would shout, but Iago had no patience for  _ conscience _ )? On an entirely selfish level, would not his plans go all to Hell with this relegation?  _ Relegation _ , indeed. He had made  _ one venial slip _ (and what a grievous error it was....), and Othello saw fit to destroy him.

For he  _ had _ destroyed him. He had worked for years-- long, hard, bloody years-- for the ensign's position, and even more than that for the lieutenancy that had so falsely been denied him. But now,  _ now _ ...Cassio had his undeserved title still, and Iago was pushed to the dust. Othello knew not what he had done. 

_ O, but he will pay _ , came the insidious whisper from within. No longer a mere gaoler, that mad persona was the voice of retribution, and Iago would heed its call...but not now. Now, he could not bring himself to rise for grief, and only hoped Emilia would not come upon him in this state.

  
  



	19. Your Wife Is At The Door

The air had turned cool with the evening, and Emilia shivered. She pulled her shawl a little closer to her body, not simply to shield herself from the cold, but also to find some of the primal comfort that came from the sheltering action. She crept down the stony hallway, quieter than any mouse, as if her very steps might cause the walls to cave in. Then she stopped, almost as if she meant to catch breath (though considering her speed [or lack thereof], that was very much unlikely). She meant not to collect her breath, but her spirits, rather.

“Pardon,” came a voice from behind, making Emilia start; wherewith she felt quite foolish and turned, struggling to compose herself. It was simply a young page who was making his rounds and lighting the torches in the hallways, for the sun was beginning to set. He cocked his head a little and gestured vaguely behind her. “Pardon, but you’re in my way, madam.”

“Ah, so I am,” Emilia said kindly, forcing herself to smile in hopes that she might actually feel what she was expressing, and thus purge herself of her anxieties. “But if you will pardon  _ me _ , young sir, gentlemen find a way to put it more delicately than to say ‘you’re in my way’.” She assumed a deeper voice for the last phrase, her best impression of a surly male--which was indeed flattering to the page, for he was yet a boy and still had a boy’s voice.

The page colored slightly in the flickering torchlight. “Sorry, madam. But I did say ‘pardon’.”

“Ay, that you did,” Emilia conceded, stepping aside. “And for that, I will forgive you.” She smiled upon the boy and allowed him to pass, watching him as he made his way through the corridor, lighting the remaining torches and finally disappearing around the far corner.

Boys were so much simpler than men, innocent yet and untainted by the cruelties of adulthood. Many a time, Emilia thought that she would love to have a boy of her own. Or a girl, whichever it be--each would be a blessing. But she knew that there was no option for either, and she placed a hesitant hand to her cheek, as she had subconsciously done all throughout the day. It would be selfishness to bring a babe into the world when she knew that she could not supply it with the home it deserved…

But enough of that. She could stall no longer. Noon had passed, and Emilia had not seen her husband; supper had gone, and still she had not seen his face. She wondered if he had simply stayed within door the entire day. Perhaps he felt ill. In troth, Emilia was afraid--afraid that she would not find him within their chambers, and yet, afraid that she  _ would _ . Afraid that he knew she had confessed the secret that both would have preferred to keep, and yet, afraid that he yet did  _ not _ .

She stopped in front of their door, and then slowly reached out, outstretching her fingers to enclose them carefully around the doorknob. Then she turned it--slowly, silently--and let the door hang slightly askew. She peeked into the room with bated breath.

O, there was the man! And how downtrodden he appeared! Slumped over himself with his head in his hands--a wave of emotion and bewildered love washed over her, for the sight was pitiful. What was the reason for this behavior? She thought she knew; she  _ feared _ she knew--but she did not know for sure. Her heart went out to him, astonished and distraught as she was. She watched him for a few moments, contemplating her next action, and then willed herself to speak.

“...Your wife is at the door, Iago,” she said with as even a tone as she could muster. “Do you bid her enter, or leave you at peace?”

  
  



	20. Do As You Will

“...Your wife is at the door, Iago.” Though he had heard her footsteps traverse the darkened hall, hesitant and affrighted, the warm, ringing sound of Emilia's voice startled Iago still. “Do you bid her enter, or leave you at peace?"

_ Ah, God _ ...what could he say to that? Bid her enter, and he could not be sure that he would not inflict upon her the pain his own heart staggered beneath. Even now, unmoving and impassible in appearance, he half wished to throw himself upon her as he would have at the Moor, taking her slender throat in his hands in place of the general's thick one, demanding her why she had revealed him, betrayed him as she had...or else he would drop to her feet, weeping and begging forgiveness for ever doing the deed in the first place like some sort of frenzied zealot asking God's forgiveness.... For Emilia was his God, his savior and destroyer, and he could only, as any man bound to such a power, rage at her or love her in turn. Desiccate her as she had him, or cherish her as she deserved....

_ Enough _ . Would that his mind would silence its treacherous self, and leave him at peace... _ bid her enter, or leave you at peace _ ? If she should not enter for fear of her life, should she not leave him be? ...But where would she go? In faith, it would not be proper to stay with Desdemona, not with the Moor present...and lodging with another of the soldiers (the name  _ Michael Cassio _ immediately came to mind) would be ill-advised....

So. She should not stay, else he might do her grievous harm. She should not go, for she had nowhere to stay...but did his opinions count for aught? Were not the actions, the judgements, after all,  _ his _ , that had led to all this misfortune? Why should she trust his word now, do his bidding if it would do her only harm?

"Do as you will," he murmured into his hands, too overwrought, too heartsick, to say much more. If she argued with him on this...he dared not think on that. "Stay, go; it matters not to me." 

And if she thought him once more cold and callous, well. She had asked of him what she ought to do...though he knew what her preferred answer would have been, and it was not the one he had given. She could take offense as she liked. He could not bring himself to care overmuch.

  
  



	21. Victims

_ ‘It matters not’ _ \--and there was a sting. For if  _ it _ mattered not, then  _ she  _ mattered not. Emilia placed a hand to her brow and held it there, pressing herself back against the wall nearest the door. Faith, she felt almost as if she could weep for sorrow. She could feel the weight upon his shoulders simply from the tone of his voice, and O, it burdened her heart so. But while she could sense his hurt, she also felt a hurt of her own… But why? She had been at the mercy of words far crueler than these for years. However, during those years she had forgotten Iago’s embrace. His warmth. And the recollection of it that she had been treated to, however brief, now made her aware that something was lost…

Truly, affection softened women’s hearts to pulp and made them malleable to temptation. It was just as Iago had said time and again; spiteful as he had been whenever she heard the chiding come from him, there was a grain of truth to the statement. Why, at this very second Emilia felt that she could surrender her soul to the Devil himself, if only she could return to that ethereal moment when Iago had kissed her, actually  _ kissed _ her… In fact, the event had been both so short and so long ago that Emilia almost began to doubt that it had actually happened.

And did not sentiment make a woman selfish? Without doubt, there was something both grievous and ominous that haunted Iago, and yet all she could think of was herself and her own romantic desires! She felt a shame for it, and yet an indignance, for whatever troubled Iago so still did not warrant him to treat her rudely… And  _ still _ she was being petty, for indeed, he had sounded far more sick at soul than he had sounded rude.

_ Nay, Emilia! _ she scolded herself, pressing her fingertips more firmly against her skull.  _ Your husband is not a villain. A victim, rather! Pity the man! He is a victim of himself. _

...And then, nay again. For who else had played Iago’s victim more often than  _ she _ , the perpetrator’s ever-bending wife?

No. She could not think that. She  _ was _ his wife; proud to be; she lived to make him happy--it was her calling. It was such wickedly ungrateful thoughts as those she had dared entertain that had caused her to be struck. And with this revelation, the clock struck seven and bells rang throughout the city… Night was approaching. Fate had merrily dragged her away from that blessed kiss in the blessed morning, and instead drove her nearer and nearer to the heavy place and the heavy hour in which her husband had cuffed her a night before. Emilia felt a chill settle in her bones that was more than just the nocturnal air, and she sank down against the wall in fearful remembrance, her own screams beginning to echo in her head again. She clutched at her head with both hands and tried to shake the awful visions out, tugging at her shawl until it was taut to her skin like a child swaddling herself in bedclothes for fear of some unseen monster.

But she must not be afraid. Eyes glossed over with unspilled tears, Emilia lifted her gaze to the torch on the wall before her, willing some of that brilliant fire into her heart. She would stay strong. Those torches burned all throughout the night without extinguishment: so would she.

“...I asked if I might enter, and you did not warrant me so,” Emilia finally said, finding that her voice sounded unpleasantly hoarse, and wretchedly strained. “‘Stay or go’, said you, but not ‘enter’, and therefore I will stay; but cross this threshold I will not. I do not think you wish to see me, but truly I cannot bear to leave you.” She searched for something she could say to convey the way that her heart ached for him, to communicate that she wanted nothing more than to fold his dispirited figure in her arms and banish his desolation hence, but she found nothing, and she instead allowed the space between them to be permeated with dark silence.

  
  



	22. Night Was Only Just Beginning

O, her words, her words...they were ravaged, harsh, straining beneath the burden of some deep emotional turmoil he could only guess at. "...I do not think you wish to see me, but truly I cannot bear to leave you.” Did that not quantify her sorrow to him? Ten and seven words, and her heart was bared...and O, what a true, devoted heart it was....

...And yet, deluded, too. By God...how could she bear to remain by him; how could she, in practice, stay hidden? How was it aught but a madwoman's wish to stay at the side of one equally touched, and comfort that one in his darkest hour? ...How were these actions not those of a fearful and callous partner, remaining at the threshold as she did, not daring to cross, not wishing to risk her life by doing so?

...And was he to blame for that? Did the culpability of all Emilia's misgivings lie solely on his shoulders?  _ Recall,  _ **_if you will_ ** _ , that  _ **_you_ ** _ struck her first, that  _ **_your_ ** _ twisted thoughts and actions intertwined and hurt her grievously, that  _ **_your_ ** _ distance all these years has made her leery of you, that she will not go to you now, and therefore the fault is  _ **_yours_ ** _.... _

But she had betrayed him! She had spoken the words, those damning, intractable words, when she had sworn herself to silence, to forgetting the entirety of the deed. She had  _ deserved _ the punishment he had bestowed upon her ( _ she did not, by God! Wretched thing, you lie to save yourself! _ ), and now...she was being...cautious. She knew it may well come again if she dared to cross within.

  
...And he could respect that instinct, at least: that of self-preservation. "Leave me, then," he replied, knowing he hurt her in saying what he said, and feeling...or trying not to feel...any remorse over the fact. Let her comfort herself;  _ she _ was not the one whose life had just now been torn to pieces before her eyes. She could beg another's company, leaving him to his own thoughts and imaginings, impossibly dark and twisted in the blackness of the room.  _ And night was only just beginning.... _


	23. The Cause

Had he not heard her? She had just said that she could not leave, and now he bid her do it anyway. But at this moment Emilia had enough sense to recognize the despairing timbre in his voice, although the words were cold and callous… Or perhaps she simply imagined that she heard despair when there was none; a fancy wrought by her fixedness to him. She was not sure, but she was certain that she would not leave.

“I will not,” she said softly, her voice little more than a breath, and she wondered afterward if he had even been able to hear her. Absently, she pulled her humble kerchief from her bodice, for she had kept it close to her heart during the day, and ran the fabric down the side of her face. It had been warmed by her skin, and now warmed her cheek against the heedless cold.

“I will not leave you,” she said staunchly, louder this time. “And there is no manner of protest you can put forth that will move me from my place. You are a man very dear to me,” she said, her voice softening.

She slowly brought her fingertips to the wood of the door, as if she was bringing them instead to her husband’s face. She had worried for him all day, and all she wanted now was to be near to him, even if he would not welcome her past the threshold where she sat. He looked and sounded fearfully forlorn… Perhaps Othello had dealt his punishment already, she thought with sudden realization. Certainly that would merit such dispiritedness… But so soon? And had not the general promised to be lenient? The Moor had seem so open, so welcoming to Emilia (the exact opposite of her husband at this moment, actually)... She could not believe that the man would praise her for her steadfastness and promise to grant her supplications, only to forget them within a matter of hours. But Othello was a man of high prestige, and certainly he could do as he wished without need to consider the lowly ancient’s wife.

Was  _ that _ the cause? If it was not, well… Emilia allowed herself to imagine, briefly, that Iago’s distress was caused by remorse for what he had done the night before. This morning, she would have believed it. And truly, she did not  _ dis _ believe it, but the experience of years overrode a simple fleeting spark. She had become used to the idea that her own emotions were not Iago’s concern.

Or perhaps it was still none of these things; perhaps there was some inner war that she knew nothing about. She thought of the haggard, nebulous explanation he had given her that morning, his visage returning to the forefront of her mind. His sharp eyes, marked with both frenzy and guilt, had been filled with opposing ice and fire. Emilia had a feeling that she had only caught a glimpse of his heart’s struggle. Indeed, it was likely that he suffered more than she could ever know…

Or not. Perhaps it was all a lie, her more cynical side reasoned; the side of her that had grown calloused by her husband’s repeated rebuke and incessant spurning.

_ No! _ her heart cried, the voice of a girl protesting against that of a woman who had grown much older than she really was.  _ Are you blind, Emilia? Can you not see his torment? Call you  _ **_that_ ** _ a fabrication? A man could not make himself look so disconsolate if he were the veriest deceiver in all the world! In faith, you misgive him too much! _

She summoned another bout of courage and peeked through the crack betwixt door and doorframe once more, to catch sight of her poor, afflicted husband. She gave the air before her lips a quiet kiss as she looked upon him.

  
  



	24. Love Was A Thing Better Lived Without

“I will not leave you,” Emilia said, more loudly, resolute, unbending. “And there is no manner of protest you can put forth that will move me from my place. You are a man very dear to me,” she added, soft and unsure.

Iago, in his half-prostrate state, could barely see through the crack betwixt door and frame, could glimpse naught of Emilia's form but a faint shadow, leaning against the wood with her slim hand resting beside her face. He could all but sense her bemusement, her distressed musings that made shadows flicker through her eyes and mar her features...more so now than ever. 

What thoughts were even now traversing her mind? Were they bitter, condemning him for turning her away when her anguish was plain as his own? Or was it pity poisoning her cogitations? Anger? Fear? Sympathy? ...Love? 

_ No _ . Whatever sentiments lurked within her, that was not one. No matter what she claimed, no matter how she haunted the door with her staunch resolve not to leave him be, no matter how she touched the chill evening air with her lips' evanescent embrace as she peered through the door... _ that was not one _ . After all he had done to her, he refused to believe that she was foolish enough to stay by such a man out of  _ love _ . Love was fleeting, fickle, bringing only pain and death. Love was a thing better lived without.

Even so...he had wallowed in self-pity for too long...and it would do no good to simply leave Emilia out forsaken in the hall, whether he wished to see her or not. With a sigh heaved from the very depths of his blackened soul, he pulled himself upright, unsteadily, and moved to the door. Waiting for the telltale rustling shift of Emilia's swift movement, he nudged the door open, placing a trembling hand upon her shoulder, regarding her distraught form with something akin to sorrow....

"Come," he murmured, knowing that he had done this to her.... "You should not pass the night here; you will catch a chill. Come within...I beg you."

  
  



	25. LittleTo Say

His countenance matched his behavior and his voice; he looked tired beyond the help of any amount of sleep, and Emilia saddened to see him so. She folded her arms slowly about his waist and laid her head on his shoulder lightly, by way of silent greeting. She kissed him at his jawline, between neck and chin, and then slipped past him to enter the room, pulling the door quietly closed behind her as she did so.

She was not sure if she should engage him in conversation, for he did not seem very much up to the task. Faith, just a moment before he had bid her leave him be… Emilia self-consciously avoided looking directly at him, lest he think her deliberately intrusive and take offense. She mentally floundered for a second or two, trying to find some unassuming function to undertake, before spying the hand mirror on the far table and deciding to stow it away within one of the drawers. She could not quite explain this compulsion, but she felt almost as though the hiding of it removed some bad omen left over from the previous night…

That done, she busied herself next with unpinning her hair. Just barely perching herself on the edge of the bed to do so, she looked as if she was encroaching upon a territory that was not her own, knowing that she was not entirely welcome. She focused her gaze upon the ground as she let the dark curls ripple down her back, and allowed her hair to curtain her face from him.

The silence between them was oppressive. She felt that something needed to be said, perhaps something that might ease the tension. She thought back over the day, trying to think of something she could comment on that bring some light into his visage, but there was not much, seeing as she had barely seen him all day. She did not dare speak about anything that had happened that morning; blessed as the events were, they did not seem appropriate to bring up now. They had only met one other time besides, just a little before noon and right before Emilia had been summoned by the general, but certainly that encounter was too strange to talk about.

She could thank him for the flowers. She couldn’t recall if she had thanked him earlier. But that, too, seemed inappropriate, seeing as she had not kept them. Even before supper they had completely wilted, and the petals had fallen from the stems in abject deterioration. She had scattered the remains of those sorry blooms under a rosebush in the courtyard.

There was little to say, to be sure. So Emilia gathered her hair to one side and simply looked at her husband with full, sentimental eyes that, upon seeing his heartache, reflected some of it in their vibrance.

  
  



	26. Ill-Advised

Though Emilia's silence was (unfortunately) welcome, it did discomfit Iago slightly, as did her movements, subdued and hesitant as they were. They seemed out of character for her: she who claimed that his silence drove her mad. Did not hers vex her in like kind? Or was she truly so fearful, so unsure and lost that she refused to act upon any sentiment, and remain passive and meek, adopting qualities that her very nature would scoff at were the circumstances any different than they were?

And her eyes...O, if her quiescence reflected not her distress, then surely those eyes  _ did _ , shining with repressed emotion, nearly overflowing with tears yet unshed.  _ Ah, Emilia, you need not take my pain upon yourself; do not burden your heart further when your own sorrow is too great for it to bear.... _

...But such thoughts were weak, unseemly, and he berated himself soundly for letting them cross his mind.  _ Faugh! Think you that she deserves your sympathy? Need I remind you  _ **_yet again_ ** _ that had she said naught of what had transpired betwixt the two of you yesternight, this could all be undone? _ Ah, there it was: the miserable gaoler's roar, condemning him yet again for a softness his heart could not help but feel. Voice of retribution, indeed. Voice of remonstrance and ill-advisement, more like.

_ Ill-advisement! How, pray, is the truth, the honest truth, ill-advised...? Soft you! Leave off thoughts of truth, and lies, and blame, and guilt, all of it! _ In faith, Emilia nearly wept as he stood in silent argument with his own mind! It was she who was even now broken, not he. Weakness or no, she needed...what, he was not sure. Comfort, perhaps, or assurance...neither of which he was much disposed to give. But it would not do to leave her without attempting the doing. 

Moving through the dark room to sit beside her on the narrow bed, Iago placed one hand upon Emilia's cheek, turning her face towards his own with the gentlest of touches, paying no heed to whatever pain the motion might have wrought upon her bruises, or his hands; it mattered not.

"What distresses you so?" he whispered, knowing full well what she might say, but needing to hear the words from her own lips...for the sake of her sanity, to say nothing of his. He had given up on that long ago.

  
  



	27. Distress And Disquiet

She heard the the sound of slow, uncertain footfalls, and then the creak of the bed as he sat beside her. He laid his hand upon the side of her face, the warm fingertips kissing the cheek that had been cooled by the evening air. Emilia felt as though the glow of that action flowed through her skin and coursed throughout her body, warming her withal, and with her own hand she pressed his gently against her cheek.

“What distresses me so?” Emilia echoed softly, searching her husband’s eyes. She hoped that she was not burdening him by appearing disheartened, not when he appeared so wondrously pitiable.  _ What distresses you so? _ For some reason, she felt like a pupil asked a question by his schoolmaster, unsure of his answer and liable to be incorrect. But that was preposterous; the man had asked an honest question and surely he expected an honest answer. This could be no trick.

“Why...it distresses me to see  _ you _ in distress,” she answered, and then finding her answer to be distastefully coy and objectionably servile, amended it through clarification. “I fear you are not well, and I wonder that I might be partly to fault,” she said, phlegmatically now, as one who gave honest answer to honest question, and regaining some of the old matronly timbres to her voice. She hesitated slightly, wondering if she dared say more. It all depended, of course, on whether he  _ knew _ or not. If the Moor had spoken with him or not…

Nay, but confound it, Emilia thought pragmatically; if Iago knew, then he knew, and if he didn’t yet, he would find out sooner or later. He would surely have right to be angry with her afterward if he found that she had known and kept him in blissful ignorance, allowing him to play fool while she hoarded the dark secret to herself… Ironic it was, she recognized, that she should keep a secret from her husband about how she had told a secret to the Moor. If she had found it her duty to hide nothing from the general, how much more so was that duty to the man her husband? She forced herself to speak before she could give it a second thought.

“Iago, I told him,” she confessed, but with more practicality than guiltiness. She wet her lips with her tongue and held his gaze fixedly. “The general sought conference with me this morning and asked me to bear witness to anything that happened last night. And I gave him answer, for I could not lie to him.” All the muscles in her face began to contract together slightly in heightening apprehension as she realized what she was saying; she realized too the especial vulnerability that she was in, with his hand already upon her face and his body so close to hers that should he make any sudden move, grab her, pummel her, smother her to death, even--she would not be able to escape.  _ Fie, Emilia, he will not make the same mistake again! _ she told herself angrily, but as she stared at him in disquiet and waited for him to reply, she did not know if she believed her own impassioned statement of faith…

  
  



	28. Damn Them All To Hell

Iago's fingers clenched convulsively into a white-knuckled fist, and he abruptly turned away from Emilia, bringing his hand to his forehead before it could wreak any more damage upon the vulnerable figure of his wife beside him.  _ Iago, I told him... _ O, what a wily serpent she...and Othello the blacker devil! 

_ Damn them all to Hell! Let them all, all, ALL rot for this transgression, burn for it! _ For they had betrayed him, the both of them: Emilia for revealing that dark truth, Othello for forcing it out of her and never mentioning a word of that to him...!

...But then...were either of them truly at fault? For Othello had, in his own mind, at least, wished only to discover the truth of the matter and make sense of Iago's and Cassio's conflicting tales...and what better way to do that than by asking Emilia, the wife, the honest, faithful wife? How could she, in faith, have lied to the general, when she would have rather drowned herself than spoken a falsehood, to anyone? ...Anyone but him, it seemed....

Confound it all; there was no way she was aught but culpable. For what transgression, precisely, he knew not...be it betraying his trust, concealing a truth known to them both, or loving him too well, he knew not...nor did he care. 

...But could he truly bring himself to punish her for those misdeeds? Surely they were no greater than his own...for no matter how greatly he tried to twist the circumstances to indicate Emilia's disfavor...they would inevitably unwind to point him out as the one at fault, and not without reasonable cause, either. Besides, if he  _ were _ to punish her, what purpose would it serve? Would not such an action bring them right back to where they had been the night before?

So he refused to give in to that ever-present rage and strike, refused to turn and face her, lest the sight of her dissipate his tenuous self-control. "I know," he muttered instead, his bandaged hand distorting and muffling the sound. "I know what you have done; I know what it has wrought. You need not justify yourself to me...and you need not fear my response," he added, his voice dropping to the barest whisper. "Think you I would be such a fool, to destroy you twice? Prithee bear some charity to my wit." His wit, not his heart. His  _ heart _ had naught to say that was not distorted by madness...and love.

  
  



	29. What Has Happened?

“...You know,” Emilia whispered breathlessly, for it was all she could think of to say. She did not know how it made her feel. Relieved, perhaps, for her own sake, but she could not stand to see her husband in such a sorry state… He had taken his hand from her cheek and she considered restoring the contact, but it did not seem meet nor wise, so she checked the impulse.

_ What it has wrought _ . The words made her feel somewhat lightheaded, for she herself did not know what had happened as the result of her confession to the general. But it did not take much wit to know that whatever it was, it was not a particularly good thing, and Iago, poor Iago, hunched over and turned away with his face in his hands--he showed a hundred fearful portents. Emilia gripped the edge of her shawl and ran her fingers through her hair anxiously. Othello had promised he would not forget her in his punishment of Iago, she told herself. Othello was a good man. An honest man, a faithful man, a man who could be trusted...

“...Iago,” Emilia said softly, reaching toward him with trembling fingers and laying them delicately upon his shoulder, “Iago… I do not...I do not know what… Can you bear to tell me what has…”

The words refused to come in her tongue’s denial, leaving Emilia to stammer like an affrighted child. Certainly Othello would not be so cruel. If Iago had been demoted...

“...Iago, what has happened?” she managed to whisper finally, knowing full well that she might not even receive an answer, horribly grieved as he was. She waited for him to speak, though she feared that she already knew what he would (or would not) tell her. If Iago had been demoted...why, she did not think he would be able to bear it. She remembered only too well how sullen, how volatile Iago had been toward her when they had discovered that Cassio had been promoted to lieutenant, and not he. How much worse would it be for him  _ now _ , to not even be able to hold the position of ensign for all his years of service? Why, looking at him at this moment, so despondent that he appeared to be unable to bear his own weight, Emilia did not know that the man wouldn’t slip away and incontinently drown himself as soon as she fell asleep! If not his physical death (for that was, though worrying, still somewhat fanciful), certainly Emilia feared the death of his sanity, troubled as he had been all this time… She continued to look upon him with a wide-eyed fervor, as if she might never see her husband again.

  
  



	30. Undone, Undone, Undone

“...Iago, what has happened?” Emilia asked, her mellifluous voice reduced to a shaking whisper, as befitting the trembling of her hand upon his shoulder and the cautious, fearful passion in her eyes. Her question, that one simple inquiry, made him to freeze, lean muscles pulling taut as though ice traveled through his body in lieu of human blood....

"Do you not know?" he breathed, barely audible even to himself. "Can you not guess?" For surely the Moor had told her of the probable sentence, whether he had promised to lessen it or not. And indeed, he would not  _ lessen it _ , no;  _ gross misconduct and deliberate dishonesty _ were grounds for unmitigated reprobation, surely... _ ah, undone, undone, undone _ !

What could he say that his look did not import already? God's sake, Emilia was affrighted yet...but not for herself, not for her own sake, but for  _ his _ . He could see the wariness shining behind the fervor in her eyes...fear for  _ his _ life,  _ his _ sanity.... Did she not see that they were even now lost to him, lost and never to return? No amount of  _ mercy _ could ever undo this slight; no, the damage had been done. Othello had lost an ancient, true...but in banishing the office, he had banished the man, who had lived with one side of him in darkness afore, and now...both sides gone. Never to return.  _ Undone, undone, undone _ .

  
  



	31. To Be Able To Dance

There was no way to answer him. Emilia opened her mouth slightly, to speak, and faltered. Yea, she did know. Ay, she could guess. But speak what she knew, what she guessed--she could not. Saying it aloud would pain both of them; saying it aloud would confirm it to be true when both of them wished that it might yet not be… She bowed her head and dropped her hands gently into her lap.

“...I am sorry for it,” she murmured, not knowing what else she could say, and lamenting the fact that her words could have no effect. O, the utter helplessness that she felt! She wished more than anything that there was something in her power she could do to change Iago’s circumstances...reverse his despondency...but there was nothing. The revelation of Iago’s fortunes... _ their _ fortunes...began to sap what little strength Emilia had left. She stood and crossed to the other side of the room to remove her outer layers of clothing so that she stood only in her smock.

She found herself gazing out of the window when she had done. The moon was full. She wondered if Desdemona and the Moor were dancing again tonight; in faith, she could imagine them in her mind as clearly as if they were really before her. Desdemona would be smiling brightly, the moonlight reflected in her own pale orbs, and as for the Moor...Emilia had seen his strong arms, and had been surprised by the gentleness yet exhibited in them. Surely now those arms led the lady in step; held her close to his breast now and then... Indeed, what privilege it was to be able to dance.

Emilia did not want to tear herself from the window; did not want to turn back and find herself in the room where nightmares transpired, conscious and otherwise; did not want to be reminded of the situation at hand; did not want to see her poor, distraught husband and feel bitterness because they would never dance. For as long as she stared out the window into the night sky, she was in some other world where she did not have to focus on anything but a velvet blackness and the speckling lights of stars and a bright, full moon.

  
  



	32. What Madness Was

She stood half-clothed by the casement window, illuminated by the full moon's gentle light, hair loose and features made pale and pure, looking for all the world like some angel or demon of fable...but her eyes were distant, vaguely bitter, detracting harshly from the otherworldly image...and even as he called her thus, all that Iago could hear was " _ I am sorry for it.... _ "

_ She had no right to pity him _ . She had no right to express sorrow of any kind, when she had been as much a party to this mischance as any other. His doing, all, to be sure, but the words, the final, condemning words were  _ hers _ , and therefore  _ she _ ought to suffer as he did...!

...Did a snapping mind manifest itself thusly? A dizzying storm of thoughts whirling through it, raging emotions breaking loose and faltering away in a heartbeat, sentiments felt and renounced in turn? A clamor of voices, all striving to be heard, all wishing to speak their wishes aloud, never mind the detriment to those spoken to? A massive, terrifying blackness, broken with clarity's light flashing unbidden, overwhelming the senses? Was this what madness was?

...Or was it merely fury, that made him stagger to his feet and stride to the other side of the room, that bid him grab Emilia's shoulder and wheel her round, that made words ravaged and enraged stream forth from his mouth, like a poisonous river in the air?

" _ You are sorry for it?! _ You fool; do you think empty platitudes will console me? By God, you speak of what you do not know! Know you what it is, to have all you have worked for, all you have known, torn away from you in one fell swoop? Know you how it  _ feels _ , to have your world turned on its head for one lapse in judgement?  _ Do not presume to tell me you are sorry _ , when you know nothing of any of this! Do you hear me?!  _ Do not dare! _ "

  
  



	33. Pale Eyes Offset By Blackest Fury

One moment, Emilia stood staring into pale stars offset by a black sky. The next, she was staring into pale eyes offset by a black fury. She uttered a small cry of surprise as Iago swung her thus, the movement catching her off guard, and she could do naught but look at him in horror as he berated her.

_ Like occurrence _ , quoth the Moor. He was much more wise than Emilia could ever hope to be.

A multitude of instincts seized Emilia in the split second before she responded to her husband’s irate outburst. Her first impulse was to cry, to sink down and weep, to curl up on the ground and cover her head and wail like a young girl and beg,  _ beg _ , for mercy. The second was to allow her own anger to be sparked by her husband’s and give him a biting retort.  _ Fine then, I am  _ **_not_ ** _ sorry for it _ , she might say saucily, knocking his hand off her shoulder with haughty finesse.  _ You deserved your punishment, vile monster that you are! _ And with that, she might dare to strike some sense into him--slap him across the cheek as he had done her… The third impulse was purely of self-preservation, and urged her to duck under his outstretched arm and flee from the room, running down the hall and crying for help, her thick hair and thin skirt flying out behind her as she made her escape.

She repressed all of these instincts, though she felt her heart might burst in the doing, and met his eyes solidly, trying hard not to quake as she did so. Was this the best way to handle the situation? Or would it only anger him further? She would soon find out.

“I am sorry I told you I was sorry,” she said, strong, yet gentle--much like the valiant Moor in all his wisdom. Though the statement sounded laughable she did not voice a single hint of irony. “You are right, Iago. I cannot possibly know how you feel at this moment--and yes, I hear you. If it is your will, I will not patronize you with my sympathy any longer. But, I ask of you, do not speak to me like this.”

She spoke solemnly, firmly, quietly; her aim was to diffuse the situation with as little emotional unrest as possible. Displaying fear, anger, or betrayal would certainly do little more than provide her husband’s rage with richer meat on which to feed. But suppose he interpreted her words as defiance? In that case, she might have made matters worse.

_ If he strikes me, I will not cry, _ Emilia thought to herself, attempting resolve.  _ He has not half that power to hurt me as I have to be hurt. I am more grieved by his pain than anything else… I must not forget that he is my husband, not a villain. _

  
  



	34. I Must Needs Clear My Head

Her words were calm, and gentle, attempting to reach through his vision's black haze of fury and soothe the beast within...as a fearful, yet patient mother might try to calm a raging child, to keep it from destroying itself or her....

...O, but his mind, his mind would not listen! He could not bid the storm of voices and thoughts be silent, could not bid his hand to free Emilia from its iron grasp. She was preaching to the choir, did she not realize? Perhaps he no more wished to  _ speak to her like this _ than she wished to be berated and held captive, but what good could amenable sentiment do if his very self prevented him from acting upon it?

Besides the which...his anger, at that moment, seemed almost a shield, protecting from the crushing forces of Emilia's pity and his own despondent self-loathing. If he raged, he would not grieve, nor reveal any weakness of that sort withal. And if Emilia happened to be the one in closest vicinity, and stayed in that vicinity of her own accord, she willingly endangered herself. He would not be to blame for any harm that should befall her....

_ Curse you, wretched devil, for thinking such! Those justifications come not from a sound mind! Whatever harm befalls her will indeed be your doing, for it will be your hand wreaking it upon her! She deserves not this constant torment, no matter what you claim she has done! You will not heal your pain by causing it in others! _

Ah, God, was it too much to ask to be free from battling one's own self?  _ Enough...enough, I beg you.... _ But he could not let Emilia see this. He had hurt her enough; better to leave her be and let the vile thoughts wear themselves out where she was not in danger of being hurt by them....  _ So you will leave her yet again, villain that you are.... _

  
But he was, he  _ was _ such a villain, and would do just that. "You are...you are in the right," he murmured, turning away from her, voice pained and taut. "You deserved not such treatment...forgive me. I must needs clear my head." And he walked out from the room without another word, laughing bitterly inside at the irony.


	35. A Thousand Thousand Sighs To Save

A breath escaped, and Emilia realized that she had barely breathed while she was staring into Iago’s rage-contorted face. Had the calmness of her words truly saved her from the anger of her husband? If so, then  _ here _ was a goodly weapon to be added to the wifely artillery. She was surprised that her attempt to calm him had worked so well, but at the same time, it made sense: both husband and wife had an inclination toward choleric humors, and for choler to meet choler and gall to meet gall--it was naught but a brewing storm. If she simply showed him that she had no desire to argue, then his, too, would melt away for lack of an adversary...

“Wait, Iago!” Emilia cried as the door closed, leaving her alone within their chambers. Where was he going? She could not let him roam about in this condition…! Her mind’s eye, frenzied by fantasy in her frantic state, saw a vision of her husband throwing himself into the Cypriot sea.  _ Know you what it is, to have all you have worked for, all you have known, torn away from you in one fell swoop? _ Ay, ay, she  _ would _ \--if she ever lost him,  _ then _ she would know, and how dearly she would mourn the knowing…!

“Iago! Husband…!” She snatched up her shawl and threw it about her shoulders in a hasty attempt at decency before throwing open the door and looking desperately down both halls, a small wave of relief flooding through her as she finally spied him.

“Iago, I will not follow you, but please,  _ please _ , tell me where you are going and when I might expect you back!” she cried, forgetting to mind the fact that she was within door. She leaned forward against the doorframe for support, clamping her fingers about the wood and stone as she strained to see him in the torchlight, each of her eyes as wide as that full moon in the night sky.

_ You are a fool _ , Emila scolded herself, repulsed by the neediness in her voice.  _ Iago is too ambitious. He would never take his own life.  _ She had seen her husband knocked down a thousand times, and each time his insult had only inspired him, if dangerously, to pursue his goals with even more fervor. Surely this time could be no different. But suppose that this was the thousand and first time he had been knocked down, but the first time he did not pick himself back up? If the thought was unlikely, never mind that--she was still worried by it.

  
  



	36. Begging Him To Run

Why did she go after him,  _ why _ ? Could she not guess that he wished not to have their sordid affairs shouted through the hall for all and sundry to hear? Could she not see that he wished not to see her, wished not to make her witness to the battle of wills that was slowly tearing him apart...?

Furthermore, how could he, in good faith, answer her frenzied inquiries, when not even Heaven knew his destination? His vile thoughts raced and twisted, begging him to run, until they had exhausted themselves and retreated safely to the recesses of his mind once more... _ destination _ or  _ return _ be damned.... Could Emilia not see that, that distress? She who claimed to know him so well, could she not see how he was fighting himself, battling the monsters within himself...?

_ And yet, you speak false yet again, for to leave her now, while she is in this state, makes YOU no less a monster...yesternight, yesternight, recall that; did you not do this same thing? Running out and wandering about like the foolish devil you are? You see what that has wrought? You see, and yet you do it again...? _

But he tamped the self-reproof down, and turned to Emilia, begging her with his eyes to understand. "I do not know," he whispered, desolate. "Nor does Heaven know...I pray you, do not wait for me. This is...something I must do...forgive me. I cannot stay here."

  
  



	37. Without Direction And Completely Unbidden

Without direction and completely unbidden, Emilia’s hand shot out, fingers outstretched, though she was not quite close enough to touch him. She held out her hand in a vain attempt to grasp for what she could not reach, her fingers tense in the chill air--all else seemed to fade into the shadows of night as she held out her hand to him, a last, beseeching adjuration for him to return to her, one that she knew he would not take... After what seemed an eternity, Emilia released a shuddering breath and lowered her arm slowly back to her side, closing her eyes and drawing a painful sigh. Pulling her shawl back around her shoulders, she agonizingly willed herself to stay where she was and to trust Iago, just this once...

“So be it then, do not promise me the time of your return,” Emilia said softly, her fingers clenched around the fabric of her shawl. “But you  _ will  _ promise me that you  _ will _ return…” she insisted uncertainly, daring to step a little ways out of the chamber. Her eyes met her husband’s, and she was startled by the lost, imploring look that she found in them. Why, he begged that she let him go just as strongly as she begged him stay.

“...Won’t you, Iago?” Her eyes grew hot with tears, and Emilia felt ashamed for it. A very child she was at this moment, ay, a child who watched his mother leave for market and feared she would not return. A child who might cry inconsolably in his dear mother’s absence, though it was certain,  _ yes _ , certain she would be back before long, for no loving mother would ever abandon her child… But a cruel mother could, even as her poor son might wail and mourn the loss of her to the very end of his life. Ay, and  _ that _ she feared.

How ridiculous she was being. Of course he would be back. In the morning, once they had been reunited, she would think back upon this night and laugh at her own whimpering cowardice. But now, it  _ was _ night, and the night’s wicked darkness leered at her, tormented her, from every which way…

_ Do not wait for me. Something I must do. _ Unfriendly, frightening words they were, for they seemed a dark, ill omen that pointed toward the very thing she feared.

  
  



	38. Monsters Within The Soul

_ Damn her _ , why did she beg so? Hand outstretched, a suppliant longing for holy palmer's kiss; eyes tearful and pleading, pleading for his remaining by her side; voice wavering in the darkness of night and a child's fear of being left alone.... O, but she moved him past thought! She would fain have him stay, with no thought, none at all, of the danger, the grief she would wreak upon herself if she witnessed the breakdown he now felt was inevitable....

“...Won’t you, Iago?” Her words were fraught with her own pain at what, perhaps, she perceived to be his abandonment of her...it was as he had thought before. Childish fear: of the dark, of isolation, of solitude. Of the monsters within the soul that haunted one at night, twisting slight misgivings into all-consuming terrors that warped the mind about itself in vain efforts to excise them.... Such terrors...they were not meant to mar Emilia's features as they now did. Let them all come upon him; he could at least ease her burden slightly before....

"Ay," he whispered, all the world's promise in a single breath. "I know not when I will return, but know that I  _ will _ ...." Perhaps he would not return  _ whole _ , but that now was of no import.

Turning away from her before her pleas could bid him do what he could not bear to do, Iago walked quickly through the dimly lit hall, his speed making him clumsier than was his wont, as he made for a small, unknown side door with all haste. No one molested him as he moved, and the lack of disruption gave his thoughts leave to start their torment of him anew, clamoring to be heard and heeded once more, crushing him under the weight of their demands....

Outside, the night air was cool and still, and the full moon, hanging like a perfect jewel in the black Cypriot sky, was becoming covered with shreds of insidious clouds, blowing from the west. An ill omen, that: night's beauty marred by evil's obscurity...it boded well for no one.

  
  



	39. She Could Not Find The Moon

His words were sparse, but there was a powerfully reassuring quality within them that convinced Emilia that yes, he did intend to come back. She said nothing as she watched him go, watched him recede away from the warm glances of torchlight, watched him disappear into the darkness until she could no longer see him. She stood there a moment, placing a cool hand to her warm heart and bowing her head in the dark to pray a silent prayer for her husband. Then she went back inside the chamber and closed the door. As she stumbled to the bed, her solitude grew heavy upon her-- but she resolved that she would not cry herself to sleep another night.

She lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling and imagining that she saw not stone but the sky...black and endless with a million stars and a bright, full moon that watched her husband at this moment. There was a coldness she felt inside her that would not be warmed by any thickness of coverlet. Though Iago had never been fain to lie beside her so that skin met skin, the warmth she craved came not from his body, but simply from his presence...

A sudden pattering sound roused her, though in faith, she had been far from sleep. It had begun to rain, and Emilia had left the window open... She got up to close it, and found that her clear, velvet sky had been shrouded with the misty veils of cloud. She could not find the moon.

Her beautiful full moon had abandoned her, turned his face--and now the heavens wept.

Emilia looked away in despair and shut the window with sorrowed hands.

  
  



	40. Madness Reflected Within

The rain came down suddenly and steadily, icy droplets that beat down upon all they touched and seeped into the very marrow of his bones, but Iago paid them no heed. Let the Heavens weep, let them roar above him this night; he cared not for the angels' pains, when his own threatened to consume him even now.

The streets of Cyprus, glistening in the freshly fallen rain, were utterly deserted; no one dared walk in this unforeseen squall...no one but he, it seemed. He found it difficult to believe he had come so far, to be within the town already, but...

Well, perhaps it was not so incredible. Time seemed oddly hazy, long moments lost and forgotten, never to be returned or recalled. His legs ached, when he did not think they should even be struggling to carry him; his head whirled and pounded, trapped in the fury of a mind trying to devour itself at his detriment....

Fitting, then, that he should see Emilia before him now, scantily clad in naught but her shift, hair and eyes wild and enraged. Before his bemused eyes she berated him, calling him devil, fool, monster, snake...he had betrayed her, she cried. Wounded her, crushed her soul. Killed her...and now she would haunt him for it, she would, make no mistake....

"God, please, make it stop," he whispered, horrified, knowing,  _ hoping _ , that his eye saw false; was Emilia not abed? How could she be here? Did he not dream of her haunts, trap himself in a nightmare of his own creation? ...But  _ why _ , then, would she not  _ leave him be and go _ ?! 

_ Strike her sound! Remove her from your sight! _ ...Of course. Voice of  _ retribution _ , back to besiege him once more. But now the voice was not merely that; it took shape before him, looming tall over Emilia's slim form, its features twisted and contorted with rage and madness, its head monstrously bloated with all of its evil sentiments, its hands claws that reached for his oblivious wife, their intent so plain, so terrible to behold, bent on taking her life as penance....

  
" _ STOP! _ " he roared aloud, not caring who heard. "Begone, you devils: both of you!" Then, quieter, ravaged and faint as he fell to his knees, staring into the gaoler's glowing eyes and seeing his own madness reflected within, he whispered, "Please. Leave me, I beg you; you torment me too much."


	41. Obviously Oblivious

There was silence. Nothing but the falling of rain to accompany Iago’s torment. And then there came a voice--one that came not from the dark recesses of his distorted mind, but from somewhere in the streets...

“Iago!” the voice cried, either faint or coming from a distance. “I say, Iago, is that you?”

It was Roderigo. For some reason he, too, was out of door, despite the darkness, despite the rain. He emerged from an alleyway, holding up a hand to his brow to block the rain from his face. His bare chin quivered boyishly in the cold, and apparently deciding that it was safe to leave whatever shelter he had been hiding in, he scurried out to meet Iago.

“Awful weather, isn’t it?” he said, in somewhat discontented obliviousness. “Either way, I am glad to have found you.” Roderigo smiled brightly against the gloom of the storm, thought it was a foolishly simpering grin. “How goes it? With Desdemona?” It was obvious that he expected news of his absurd love, and doubly obvious that he had not the sense to know when was a meet time to ask and when was not. At any rate, he wanted answer, whether Iago was inclined to give it or not.

  
  



	42. Ripened Fruits Of Rotten Love

"...With Desdemona?" Iago repeated confusedly. Roderigo's boyish voice, high with excitement and disgruntlement in turn, acted almost as a hook, forcibly dragging him from his dread imaginings and into the present once more...though he could be sure whether to be thankful for that or not....

As for the girl...God's sake, he had but glimpsed her this day; he had not spoken to her, nor had he come upon her in any state he would like to repeat. An image of his woe-begotten flowers, wilted and soiled atop the courtyard's wall, entered his mind unbidden, followed by the shocked, bemused fear in Desdemona's limpid doe eyes as she spoke, concerned, Emilia...though he knew not if the sight were true. He had not been present for it; in faith, he had not been wholly  _ present _ for the duration of his discourse with his wife then, either....

...But Roderigo, here, was so earnest, so trusting of his assured knowledge of the girl's well-being...could he not see that his friend (ostensibly) wished not to answer him that, could not bear to speak? ...Of course he could not. Blind he was: by love, by youthful naivety, by sheer stupidity unrelated to that wrought by his love.... 

So. Persistent as he was, Roderigo demanded answer. Much as Iago might like to clout him upside the head for his foolishness, or else abandon him here altogether in lieu of his own misery (though perhaps he used that merely as an excuse to escape the pup)...it would not do. Heaven knew what Roderigo might do if he were denied news of his beloved.

"Last I saw her, she was well," he replied, hoping his voice gave away naught of his internal abuses. "No doubt she is with the Moor even now, enjoying the fruits of his love." There. Let the boy be satisfied or discouraged by that at will. He cared not for Roderigo's infantile infatuation.

  
  



	43. Desdemona With Her Dark Lord

The smile was wiped from Roderigo’s face completely as Iago gave his much-too-unnecessary answer, replaced by a horrified anguish. “ _ Must _ you say things like that?!” he cried, clenching his fingers into trembling fists. “Believe me, I know well enough she is not mine without you  _ grinding _ it into my face like a handful of dirt!”

Wonderful, and now Roderigo was  _ thinking _ of it. Poor, sweet Desdemona! Shackled in blindness, enamored of a dark-skinned devil who no more deserved the lady than Roderigo deserved to be shunned. Desdemona had a fair face, a gentle figure--and she wasted her beauty on utter ugliness. Roderigo felt a bout of despair overtake him, and it surfaced in his person as a sort of frantic indignance.

“‘Fruits of his love’--ha! I think you mean to mock me with that,” he snapped, but even as he spoke the wretched words they sapped him of his resolve; as he thought once more of Desdemona with her dark lord (he could not bear it, to call him her ‘husband’), his heart became heavy with discouragement. A shudder ran through him, and he felt tears come to his eyes, prompted by the frustration he had encountered during the day coupled with his present misery.

“And if so, well-shot, for you have hit your mark,” he moped, his boldness leaving him. He had no strength to retaliate against Iago’s cruel remarks. “O, Desdemona!” He dropped to his knees as though he spoke to some goddess. “Cursed fate that gave you to the Moor…!” His head sank down to touch the filthy streets as he lamented.

  
  



	44. Drown Myself For Grief

“No…” Roderigo trailed off weakly. “You are right, I should not show such weakness… O, but being so in love  _ is _ weakness; weakness is sewn up in the very web of love!” He sighed theatrically and swiped at his nose like a mucous child. “Determined I am to have her, and believe me, Iago! But for some peculiar reason, I begin to think that perhaps she will not have me, no matter my determination…”

The thought wounded him, likely or unlikely as it may be, and the damning realization cut him at the heart. To think that Desdemona, whether the Moor had illusioned her or not, simply  _ did not want _ Roderigo, regardless of any merit that he possessed…! Was that not enough to drive any man mad? Forsooth, Roderigo had loved other girls before, but he was certain that his past affections paled in comparison to what he felt now for the beautiful Desdemona.

In misplaced frustration, Roderigo knocked Iago’s hand from his shoulder and gripped him around the wrist, though he was vaguely aware that the action was not in the least bit threatening. “You cannot possibly understand my torment, Iago!” he cried, his voice echoing off of the streets shrilly, spittle scattering from his lips and mingling with the raindrops. “I love her, with all my heart and soul. If she loves me not, I may drown myself for grief! You have never loved as I do now--I am sure of it; I would bet my life upon it! Your attempts to console me can do nothing: They cannot make her love me, and therefore, I will hear no more of them!”

  
  



	45. Do Not Speak Of What You Do Not Know

"Well," Iago said quietly, Roderigo's indignant words ringing through his ears.  _ You cannot possibly understand my torment...drown myself for grief.... You have never loved as I do now--I am sure of it; I would bet my life upon it...I will hear no more of them.... _ "Go to. You wish not to hear empty consolations?"  _ Then to speak more of them I will not endeavor doing, for that is all they are.... _ "Very well."

Attempts to console, indeed...for they were all in all mere attempts, some device aimed to daff the fool from insight...but that Roderigo could now  _ see _ them for the half-hearted assays they were...that, in faith, was worrisome in the extreme. That he slighted Iago in the doing, undermining his depth of sentiment... _ that _ was nearly worse.

_ How dare he speak of what he does not know? How dare he presume to know your mind...MY mind...and say your love is but a farce...? No matter if it WAS; is that not past falsehood now? Is it not? Or do you disillusion yourself, insisting you hold no affection, no feeling, no LOVE for Emilia? ...And not only Emilia! He insults the depth of your agony, for God's sake: the one thing you know without doubt to be even now an indisputable truth...! _

His hand, yet caught in Roderigo's weak grasp, flipped over suddenly to grab the young man's soft one, twisting it in a bruising hold as his other hand came to rest, knifelike, in the joint of Roderigo's wrist. The blonde fop was brought to his knees with a quick turn of the hands, and Iago wrenched the feeble white wrist behind Roderigo's stooped back as he bent, eyes gleaming with deadly cold, to whisper in the boy's ear.

"You think I cannot understand?" he hissed, his voice nearly a soft caress, tinged with indomitable steel. "You think I cannot  _ possibly _ know what pain, what sorrow love can bring? You think I  _ cannot know _ what it is to be denied, to be spurned, cast aside in the face of my greatest desire? You think I know not what torment is? You think I do not breathe it, live it, at this very moment?"

He wrested the abused wrist higher, sharply, so that Roderigo's face nearly touched the ground, and brought one foot up into the shoulder socket, debating with appalling frigidity the wisdom of dislocating it. The thought was tempting, too tempting...but then...he had need of Roderigo yet... _ and to hurt another would be to destroy yourself; do you truly WISH to become the monster you think yourself to be? _

With dread finality in his voice, he whispered, "Do not speak of what you do not know." And he let the man go, satisfied with and loathing of himself in equal stead.

  
  



	46. Anguish And Agony

Shocked out of his irritation completely, Roderigo burst into fresh tears upon the instant of attack. Where Emilia had wept out of shame, sorrow, and anger, there was only a piteous fear in Roderigo’s sobs. Though he struggled where Emilia had not, his struggling did nothing to free him from Iago’s hold.

It was a surprise to Roderigo that he should be treated thus, for Iago had professed himself his friend! Roderigo did not quite feel betrayed, for he recognized that Iago was the brain behind their revenge plan, the one who gave the orders. But certainly he felt bewildered, for he had never been wrested so cruelly in his life. He could feel his arm raised up with prickling agony; he felt Iago’s foot raised to his shoulder as though he meant to squash him like a beetle. He heard words, though he could not expend the mental energy to comprehend them in such panic.

And then he was released--his face hit the pavement with a dreadful smash to the nose. As if he was already a dead man (for he nearly supposed that he was), Roderigo lay there with the rain pelting his back. The arm that Iago had seized--it was Roderigo’s dominant one--felt strained at the very least, though his fear tricked him into feeling much more pain than that (and Roderigo had never been so great about the handling of pain in the first place). His whimpering was muffled now, as he blubbered into the dirty stones of the street, and he wondered if perhaps Iago might simply leave. He hoped so. He was too afraid to make his escape until Iago had left.

  
  



	47. Shattered Facade

Iago stared down at Roderigo's crumpled, whimpering form balefully, feeling naught but contempt as he gazed upon the man he professed to be the dear friend of. That facade was shattered now, he knew...cracked at the very least...and yet, what did that matter? No longer was he in any position to enact his intended perfidy; no longer could he claim to have the Moor's utter trust and confidence. Honest Iago had been banished this day...why not Iago, friend of fops, with him?

"Up you get," he said quietly, concealing a silent scoff at the girlish tears that streamed from Roderigo's bright brown eyes, the light of love in them extinguished by a haze of fear and pain. Grabbing the man gently by both shoulders, he hauled him upright, examining his arm dispassionately.... That he had done much the same thing yesternight, with Emilia's face held between his hands in lieu of Roderigo's arms...the irony was not lost on him. Not in the least.

"Dry your tears, man!" he continued, pushing himself away from Roderigo as he observed him to be unharmed. "You have upon you no grievous hurts; you are not a child in need of a mother's comfort after a slight fall. Off with you."

  
  



	48. Intimidation And Salvation

As Iago looked him over indifferently, Roderigo stood very still, hardly breathing, lest he make some other foolish mistake. It took a great amount of willpower to quell the trembling, and even so he could not keep from shaking just a little. He did not dare to speak as Iago criticized him and bid him leave; he only nodded his head dumbly and scurried off into the night, not waiting to be met with further rebuke. He stumbled, and then broke into a run.

Roderigo knew it to be true, now: he was afraid of Iago, who was so much stronger and smarter than he. And yet, that fear was coupled with admiration for that strength and wit. Would that  _ he _ were Iago! Certainly, if he were, he would not be lost in Cyprus, or shivering in the rain and weeping over a strained muscle, or pining after some unattainable woman. Why, truly, Iago was capable of any task! And that was what made him both of intimidation and salvation, and what Roderigo simultaneously feared and admired…

After he had run some distance away through winding streets, Roderigo slowed to a stop and remembered that he still did not know where he was. All evening, the Cypriot lady Bianca had toyed with him by giving him different directions every time he came back to her. Eventually he had given up the search altogether, but now… Now, Roderigo felt horribly unsafe to be without shelter. Perhaps he might entreat her once more for directions...

He knew not what hour it was, but it seemed late; everyone was probably abed. Still, he did not have many choices.

  
  



	49. Karakiozi

Bianca dragged her slim brown fingers gently down Michael Cassio's firm chest, which glistened with perspiration and gleamed white as the now-hidden moon in the darkness of her bedchamber. She traced the sculpted muscles eagerly, smiling softly as she recalled how fully she had pleasured him but minutes before...her handsome  _ ypolochagós _ .... 

The light pattering of the rain upon the half-opened shutters made a mystical, soothing music that would fain have sent Bianca into as deep a sleep as her Cassio's, but the sudden, tremulous knock upon the door startled her from her drowsy state. Muttering curses, she extricated herself from the bed with care, stooping to press an evanescent kiss to Cassio's marble brow before tiptoeing to the door, with naught but a hand-woven blanket covering her nude form. 

" _ Ena lepto, parakalo! _ " she called, brushing her thick mane of curls back with one hand, hoping she looked at least somewhat decent, praying that no heinous villain knocked upon her door. " _ Theos.... _ " With a put-upon sigh, she threw the door open, staring agape at the drenched blonde man who stood shivering at the threshold.

"You again!" she exclaimed. "How is it you can find this place so easily and never find your inn, hmm?" Roderigo truly looked a sight: dripping wet, his foppish locks plastered to his tear-stained face, his right arm held stiffly to his side, his nose bloodied and slightly...smashed. "What have you been doing, my  _ karakiozi _ ? Did you run into thieves,  _ signor _ ? Or did your  _ fílos _ Iago find out you stole his name, and take his revenge?"

  
  



	50. A Fish Of A Man

Roderigo opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, in a manner that somewhat resembled the glassy-eyed gaping of a fish. He knew not what to say. How would it help the situation at all to reveal what had happened? The lady knew too much about him as it was.

The lady… In the dim light Roderigo had recognized that something about her was a little strange, and now he knew what it was. Why, she hadn’t any  _ clothes _ on! She was swathed in a blanket, but naught besides! Was she not cold? Was she not  _ embarrassed _ ? Roderigo was, for admittedly he was a stranger to the female form, and now to see  _ this _ woman in front of him, her curvaceous silhouette veiled with nothing but a blanket! It horrified him, baffled him--

...It  _ dawned _ on him. Suddenly, it all came together. The scent of cheap perfume that hung about her, the made-up face, the sultry glances, the seductive caresses, the complete and utter disregard for propriety--now that she stood before him, essentially  _ naked _ , and barely seeming to care, Roderigo realized what Bianca  _ was _ , and his eyes widened in speechless consternation. He looked more fishlike than ere he did a moment ago.

“...J-just tell me where it is, this time, in honest truthfulness, please,” he stammered awkwardly, averting his gaze to avoid laying eyes upon her body. He rubbed at his nose, partly out of boyish habit and partly out of tense delicacy, and when he pulled his fingers away he was sickened by the sight of his own blood. Worse still, the friction rekindled the crimson trickle, forcing him to pinch his nostrils closed with his left hand.

  
  



	51. A Token For Your Pains

Bianca would never have thought that aught about Roderigo would ever move her to compassion, but seeing him now, so very visibly embarrassed and bumbling, looking quite miserable as he pinched the delicate nostrils of his bleeding nose closed, she could not help but feel a bit of pity for the man. Whatever misfortune had befallen him ere his latest arrival here, he had been soundly cudgeled...and it really would not do to leave him to wander the isle all night long; he would catch his death of cold in this rain, if he did not first stumble into some thief's den and get himself killed.

"My poor  _ psári _ ," she crooned, whisking the beautifully embroidered handkerchief that Cassio had given her out of her pocket to hold it to the boy's blood-soaked upper lip. "You are in earnest this time,  _ nei _ ? No patience left for my silly games?" She smiled at him then, all brazen amusement and white teeth. "Very well. I understand. I will give you your directions, for you have earned them, poorly as you are."

Satisfied that the trickle of blood had stopped (although Bianca had seen tiny children weep less at such hurts than Roderigo now did), she stepped back, handing her handkerchief to him with a grin. "A token for your pains," she said, recalling that Cassio had told her of telling off some Clown with the same words. "Turn back to leave this road from its mouth, turn  _ left _ from there, walk straight past three  _ koureíos _ ...barber's shops, yes? Do that, and you will see another, wide street, with a statue of Zeus at its center. The inn is across that: a large building, with white marble columns and many, many windows. I swear to you."

  
  



	52. Bereft Of Self-Confidence

He held his breath as she came near to touch him, as he had done when Iago had looked him over; but where he had been afraid to meet Iago’s eyes, Bianca’s seemed to hold him uncomfortably spellbound. He took the bloodied handkerchief mutely, looking at it. Though the damp spots of red made it disgusting, it was a pretty trinket. Did she mean for him to keep this?

When Roderigo looked up, she was already giving him directions, and half of them had passed right through his ears without being properly comprehended. When she had finished, with the promise that this time she did not jest with him, Roderigo considered the wisdom of asking her to repeat it. Surely she would laugh at him if he did, and that would cause him to forget them all over again.

“Erm...perhaps you will lead me there yourself so that I...don’t get lost?” he mumbled foolishly, absently playing with the handkerchief in his hands. That was no better, but Roderigo decided he didn’t care if he looked like a simpleton. He was tired and cold, and an evening of following misgiven directions had left him bereft of self-confidence.

  
  



	53. Ilithiotita

Bianca sighed, rubbing one hand down the length of her face as Roderigo eyed her, pleading and disconsolate.  _ Chári tou Theoú _ , it was nearly midnight, and  _ raining _ ...besides the which, the fop was not the only one who could claim weariness; she herself wished nothing more than to return to her chamber and her lieutenant, leaving the poor boy to fend for himself....

...But then...he appeared not to have heard her directions, fool that he was! What was the use of speaking true if he heard not what she said? If she left him now, he would get lost for certain, even more so than before...and did she really wish to soil her conscience with Roderigo's death or disappearance? 

_ Oxi _ . That would not be so well. All little boys needed guidance at some point, did they not? She would only be doing her human duty in helping him, no matter the inconvenience.

Heaving another exaggerated sigh, she took one of Roderigo's soft white hands in her own, not even cringing at the stickiness of drying blood upon them, and began to lead him down the street. "You are fortunate," she told him reproachfully, "that you have found me to guide you, and not someone less kind. They would have left you, despite your obvious  _ ilithiótita _ ."

The walk to the inn took less time than she had feared, though she still shivered as greatly as Roderigo did by the time they had reached it, and regretted heavily her decision not to dress before opening her door. "There," she said. "You are very welcome for that service; I hope you can find your room on your own."

  
  



	54. For His Sake

Roderigo agreed with her, on that one point; he  _ was _ fortunate to have found her. As she led him down the paved, wet streets, he focused only on her, determined not to lose sight of her in the darkness and the rain. Her voluminous curls were becoming tamped down with the weight of water, and the rain was undoubtedly starting to drench the blanket she was swathed in. Roderigo felt increasingly sorrier and sorrier that he had made her come out into the rain…

Nay, but he had not. Bianca had said it herself; anyone else would have simply closed the door on him. It had been her own choice to personally come along with him and make sure he did not lose his way. She had chosen to subject herself to the cruelties of the climate for  _ his _ sake.

The abundance of social prejudices that had begun to alter Roderigo’s perception of the lady now began to fade away under a wave of actual, self-formed opinions of her. Perhaps she was not a moral woman, but certainly she was kind. Perhaps she shocked him and bewildered him, but she was friendly, and there was a merit. She had mocked him and made sport of him, but she had also wiped his face of blood and now led him to refuge. And strangely enough, Roderigo decided that she made him feel...safe.

“I thank you,” Roderigo said as they stood before the destination that he had been a whole evening in finding. “Truly.” He smiled sheepishly at her final dispassionate quip, but could find nothing to say in reply to it. Bianca was very wet, and being mostly bare, she shivered now, making Roderigo feel rather guilty.

“Ehm...here,” he said, removing his cloak from his shoulders and awkwardly placing it about her. “That should protect you from the rain as you return…” This done, he backed away until he found that he stood up against the door of the inn, uncertain of what he should do next. Without looking away from her, he rapped hesitantly on the door behind him.

  
  



	55. Efharisto

Shocked by Roderigo's unanticipated act of kindness, Bianca clutched the thick, damp wool of the fine cloak tightly, hardly daring to breathe for disbelief. Had he really just given this to her, unheedful of his own needs in lieu of hers? 

_ Theos _ , she had just about  _ seen _ his views of her change before her very eyes, from wary, prejudiced hesitance to grateful acceptance...was it even possible? Had her service truly had so profound an effect on him, that he would defy his parrot's nature and judge her for her own merit?

"Will you not need this?" she asked, trying desperately to regain the pert composure that he had shocked out of her. "I thank you for it, truly; such a gift will serve me well, but...."

Well, to Hades with it. If he wished to give her this out of heart's concern, he knew where she lodged; he could take it back if he wished (and return her kerchief, perhaps, though she was not opposed to him keeping it). The added warmth was only too welcome in the chill rain of the dark night. 

" _ Efharisto' _ ," she said, stepping forward to press a kiss to Roderigo's plump cheek, cool with water. "You need not knock; just enter, and go to your chamber. I am in your debt as much as you are in mine." With a sudden flash of bold energy, she pressed herself close to him once more, leaning forward to whisper seductively in his ear, reveling in what had nearly become a private joke between them. "I hope we may meet again,  _ karakiozi. Kalinihta _ ." That said, she threw back her head and laughed once more, before disappearing into the murky darkness like a wraith, chuckling the entire way home.

  
  



	56. Fools Could Be Wise

As she came forward to kiss him, Roderigo recoiled but slightly, but he did not turn away when she laid her lips upon his cheek. Although he allowed her the gesture, he could not help but shut his eyes in apprehension of the touch--however, it seemed to him that this was an affable kiss, not a lecherous one. He could not bring himself to say the same of her crooning whisper, but still...he saw that she meant him no ill will. As she traipsed away into the dark, Roderigo stayed standing, looking in the direction she had gone… Her laugh sparkled, as though her mirth itself emitted pulses of light into the darkness. She truly _ was _ a beautiful lady…

He entered the inn and, fortunately, had enough wit to remember which room it was that he had paid for. The first thing he did was wash both himself and Bianca’s handkerchief free of his blood, for the sight of it made him squeamish, and then he spent some time sitting on the bed wondering if his arm was hurt at all and if it would feel better in the morrow.

He could not presume himself to be more moral than Bianca, he realized guiltily as he cast his gaze up toward the ceiling. He sinned as much as she by pursuing a lady who was already married, whether she was married to man or demi-devil, as it were. Did he not? It was a difficult question, and difficult to answer, for one answer dissolved morality and the other professed him a villain.

He did not sin in the doing, if marriage bound Desdemona to a man barely human--for such a marriage was not recognized under the eyes of heaven. But...what determined if a man was human or not? Was the Moor inhuman because he was not a Venetian--or even European, for that matter? Was Iago inhuman because he professed himself friend and counselor and then dared to attack?

He didn’t know. He didn’t  _ want _ to know.

Roderigo was, in truth, afraid to wander very far from the conventional beliefs impressed upon him since childhood. The prospect of having a different philosophy than what he had always known was strange and worrying. Desdemona was a lady. The Moor was a barbarian. Bianca was a prostitute. Things were simpler that way, classified into very strict and very defined orders, and it was easier to determine where one’s place was.

But things were not quite that simple… Tired, damp, and cold, Roderigo ceased to be blind for a moment or two. Ladies could be defiant. Barbarians could be loved. Prostitutes could be kind.

They were paradoxes, and yet they were true. What did it mean? Perhaps everything Roderigo knew was false.  _ That _ panicked him, and he quickly absolved himself from the unfamiliar office of philosopher and resolved to go to sleep.

There was one paradox that Roderigo had not thought of that night, but that night proved to be as true as the rest: Fools could be wise.

  
  



	57. Not All Men

If Bianca had made sport of Roderigo before for being a clueless little rich boy, she could no longer aim at him any disparagement of the sort. His cloak, of such a fine, plush weave, worked wonderfully to keep the icy rain from her ill-clothed body, trapping what heat she could foster against her skin and making her unseen return not at all unpleasant. 

Had she been escorting another man, she did not think he would have been so generous. Likely, the little  _ karakiozi _ had merely been repaying the kindness she had shown him, but...she could, perhaps, allow a small part of her to believe that not all men of society were cruel and given to deleterious discrimination and misjudgment. Some, it seemed, could be forgiving, could be accepting. Some could, through circumstance or otherwise, learn to discard the prejudices and attitudes that had been ingrained into them from birth. After the events that had transpired this night...the idea was not so far-fetched.

Thinking on that, she felt a sudden rush of remembered affection for Cassio, her lieutenant, yet sleeping in her bed, oblivious to all she had done just now. Cassio was a proper man, made of no such baseness as those fools who thought different skins and styles of speech or worship made one less than human. Though he acknowledged, with sheepish grace, that he had no place in Cypriot society and remained nearly ignorant of the culture, he always had a kind word for all those he met, regardless of who or what they were...and she loved him all the more for that.

Letting herself into her house as the bells of the city struck midnight, Bianca crept, silent as a mouse, to her chamber, bending to kiss Cassio upon his full, parted lips before settling herself beside him, giving herself over to Morpheus's warm embrace as she lay ensconced in her lieutenant's arms.

  
  



	58. A Fine Work Of Art

There was something inherently delicious about waking up in the morning with cool sheets against warm bodies, bare limbs against soft skin. Cassio woke early, as was his wont, for no matter how vigorously he reveled he always made a point of punctuality, and gingerly unraveled his arms from Bianca’s voluptuous form. A fine work of art, she was, and as Cassio slowly withdrew himself from her embrace he took a moment to draw open the blanket that covered her and run his eyes over her curves appreciatively. Her browned skin and freckled complexion, her abundance of tightly-wound, rusty curls--they all complimented her, made her wonderfully exotic. And heaven, but she was good at what she did.

Covering her back up again and removing himself from her bed, Cassio retrieved his clothes from where they were draped over a wooden chair and began to redress himself. He wondered if Bianca would awaken, or if he might be able to slip from her house unnoticed. It was much easier to leave if he did it while she was still asleep; that was a lesson he had learned as of late. With each night he spent with her, Bianca became increasingly more and more attached to him. The last time Bianca had awoken before he had a chance to leave, she had detained him for nigh three minutes, crooning to him and clasping him about the shoulders every time he tried to take a step.

He chuckled to himself. Perhaps it was cruel that he allowed her to gradually enfetter herself to him when he knew he could never reciprocate her affections, but from a purely carnal standpoint, the more she loved him, the more passion she had in her performance…

Cassio watched her as he quietly slipped on his boots. He tried to creep out of the room, but he hit a squeaky floorboard as he did, and he abruptly turned to look at Bianca to see if the noise had condemned him.

  
  



	59. Just Another Whore

The loud creak startled Bianca from dreams, making pleasant, nebulous images fade into discouraging blackness as the gray morning light hit her eyes. She felt oddly chilled as she woke, and it dawned upon her with harsh alacrity that she was even now bereft of Cassio's warming presence. 

In her oblivion, he had risen and dressed, apparently making ready to leave with all haste. The sight should not have surprised her...indeed, it did not, not at all; Cassio always tried to leave her as quickly as he could come morning, no matter how she begged him to stay. Surely he did not  _ have _ to be present at the Citadel at precisely eight of the clock each morn!  _ Chári tou Theoú _ , he was a lieutenant; did that not give him leave to arrive in a manner less prompt?

" _ Pou' pa'te _ ?" she asked, her lyrical voice rough with sleep and disappointment. "Will you leave me, then, Michael, so callously? As though I were just another whore to you? Is that what I am?"

  
Pushing herself upright laboriously, Bianca swung herself from the bed and began to walk to Cassio, with dragging temptress's steps, not bothering to conceal her bare body, meeting her lieutenant's eyes with a challenging smirk upon her lips. "My dear Cassio," she murmured throatily, pressing herself against him and drawing one hand down the length of him, from neck to his nether regions yet aroused. That certainly boded well for her.... "Will you not stay,  _ agapi _ ? The morn is yet young...."


	60. I Must Away

Cassio closed his eyes sharply as she fondled him but managed to gently push himself away, with a laugh of amusement. Relentless as ever, she was! And wily as well. He held her at arm’s length to prevent her from rubbing herself up against him again, though he caressed her bare shoulder with his fingers. “Bianca, sweet, you will see me again tonight; you know it! But now I must away.” He took her hand and daintily kissed the back of it.

“Truly, darling, you looked so angelic in your repose that I did not dare to wake you. I did not mean to be rude!” It was a half-truth, but whether she knew it or not had no import to him. He continued to lay moist kisses up the length of her arm, and then at her collarbone, and then upon her lips, hoping to appease her.

Just another whore, quoth she! It was mildly endearing that Bianca thought herself better than a common whore, although that was truly what she was. Marry, perhaps Bianca was not  _ common _ , but she  _ was _ a whore. Cassio would not tell her that, though.

“I will return in the evening, Bianca. Now for heavens’ sake, my love, leave me be.” He patted her affectionately on the cheek and turned to go.

  
  



	61. Come When You Are Next Prepared For

Bianca stared after Cassio's retreating form in shock, unable to move as he patted her cheek affectionately and turned away. The  _ nerve _ of the man! To caress her as he might a child, chastising her for her impatience! By Heaven, she would not stand for it! If he wished to reassure her, that was all very well, but he need not  _ patronize _ her in the doing!

" _ Bástardos _ !" she cried to his back, knowing that her words needed no translation. "I truly  _ am _ just another whore to you! If you truly loved me, as you claim you do, you would not constantly put all else before me! Because I am a woman and a dark-skinned, wild-blooded Cypriot, do you think me a fool? In faith, I am beginning to feel taken for one! I had thought that your affection for me ran as deep as mine does for you, but I was wrong, evidently!"

Breathing hard, hoping her anger would move Cassio to remain even as it abated (for she could never stay angry at him for long), Bianca turned away from him, deliberately, making a statement even a blind man could not ignore. "If you will stay, you may," she said haughtily. "But if not, come when you are next prepared for."

  
  



	62. Such Choler

“Such choler!” Cassio cried, turning around and approaching her with his hands outstretched in wonder. “Come, sweet Bianca, surely you don’t feel this way!” He came toward her until he was able to press her body against his own, her rounded hips framed by his. He ran his hands symmetrically along both sides of her waist, caressing her bared flesh and finally laying his hands to rest over her bosom.

“Sweet Bianca, darling Bianca, lovely, marvelous Bianca… I must to my duty. It is nothing against you, you know. There is nothing here that begs your unhappy slights.” He kissed her about the neck, rocking her to and fro in flirtatious jest. “I will come in the evening! You have heard me promise it nigh twenty times--now let me go without any of your cruel scolds.” He kissed her again, and again, about her jawlines, her shoulders, her cheeks, anywhere that his lips could reach. “Will those kisses last you the day, my sweet?”

She could not stay angry with him for long, and he knew it. Still though, she was beginning to hinder him for longer and longer. He would need to create a mental map of her floorboards.

  
  



	63. Passion Bottled Away

...Cassio was right in that Bianca could not remain angry with him for long. Though she knew in her heart of hearts that he jested with her in his gentle, passionate caresses, she could not help but be soothed by his words, his promises....

...Besides, though she was aware of his efforts to soften her, make her once again amenable to his departure, she also knew that he did indeed speak true. No matter how devoted to his duty he was, he would invariably return to her come evening, as eager to taste her, to  _ feel _ her, as he had been these three nights past. He would not be inclined to give up the pleasure she brought him, not for the world...she was confident of that.

So she could forgive him the slight, excuse the discourtesy that was his leaving her, for she had faith in him. Cad though he could be, his fidelity (for what it was worth) regarding his commitment to her was above questioning. Love was, after all, a mutual trap. 

"I do believe," she murmured, parting her lips to invite Cassio's tongue deeper, her breath coming fast and shallow as he trailed kisses from her lips to her fingers, "that they will,  _ agapi _ . And if they will not...." She trailed off then, a devilish smirk gracing her exotic features as she eyed Cassio boldly. "Well, I am well-known for patience. Passion bottled away for a day makes the night so much sweeter."

  
  



	64. Unfamiliarity

“Amen to that,” chuckled Cassio, laying one final kiss upon her lips. “Now, I will away. Until night, my love.” He withdrew his arms from around her waist and, smiling at her, left the room and left her house.

The streets were wet, for the sun had not yet been awake long enough to dry the rain of the night before. Cassio took a deep breath, appreciating the mingled scent of sea and rain that greeted his senses as he made his way through the streets and toward the Citadel.

He wondered what he would do regarding Bianca, once the Venetian army was sent away from Cyprus once more. There was no way he could leave unnoticed in that case, for Bianca constantly went out of her way to seek information about his whereabouts, and even if he could, certainly Cassio was not  _ that  _ cruel. If he left Cyprus without telling her, it might just break the poor caitiff’s heart. He couldn’t do that to her. A whore she was, but a lady too, and unlike many of the other men, Cassio had standards regarding women. He would never dare to harm a lady, either with words or force. Women were like works of art--not to be marred or unappreciated. Though he had always possessed a weakness for frequenting bordellos, he dared not brag publicly of what had been achieved twixt the sheets, as often did other soldiers.

Occasionally Cassio felt a sense of otherness, being a Florentine amidst mostly Venetians. That feeling of unfamiliarity was perhaps part of the reason why he loved Othello so well; foreignness was something they had in common. Marry, whatever feelings of exclusion Cassio had ever experienced, it was a thousand times worse for the general, but still--it was a source of friendship between them.

As Cassio entered the fortress with a slight nod of acknowledgement to the guards, he was greeted by the sight of Desdemona rushing to meet him, her pale blue skirts swishing as she went. Strangely, she appeared to be unaccompanied.

“Good morrow, gentle Cassio!” she cried, slowing to a stop. There appeared to be a slight timbre of urgency in her tone, although perhaps she was simply out of breath.

  
  



	65. Helpmeet And Confidant

"Good morrow, Desdemona," Cassio replied, offering the seemingly rushed lady a genial smile as he took one hand to place upon it a tender, gentlemanly kiss. If he felt a sort of kinship-wrought-of-otherness with Othello, that friendship was surely made all the more rewarding by the pleasure of Desdemona's company. 

Truly a dear friend of his, the girl was wise beyond her years, yet still retained the youthful energy and innocence of a child...though, in faith, he was not much older than she. He was a brother to her, he liked to think: helpmeet and confidant and supporter all at once. 

...So it was only to be expected that her apparent urgency invoked within him a measure of concern. Though she did not look particularly distraught, there was a strange note in her voice, a sort of light in her eyes that hinted, perhaps, at some strange experience of hers...

"Is all well with you, Desdemona?" he asked, worry shining in his clear dark eyes. "Truly, you do seem to be in quite a state...."

  
  



	66. Poor Emilia

“Do not worry of me, good friend,” Desdemona said, dipping her head and clasping her hands about his own in earnestness. “But do, I pray you, worry of Iago. Have you seen the man this morning? My poor Emilia and I have been looking around these grounds nigh an hour, and she is fretfully grieved by his absence. She says that he had not been abed at all last night…”

Emilia had not asked her to seek out information regarding her husband (in fact, she had seemed rather opposed to it), but there was little else Desdemona  _ could _ do, for she felt as bound to Emilia by love as Emilia was to her by duty. That morning, Emilia had arrived at Desdemona’s chamber looking even more haggard than she had the previous morn, and she had not been able to keep her anxiety from her face. So troubled was she that she had admitted her worries easily to Desdemona, and the two had begun to walk about to see if they could locate Iago anywhere out of door, in case he was simply somewhere about the fortress unmarked. They had not found him in all that time, and they had stopped to rest at a marble bench within one of the gardens--in faith, Emilia was there even now with her head in her hands--when Desdemona had keenly spied Cassio coming hither and come over to supplicate him of any knowledge.

She found her slim, pale fingers tightening around Cassio’s broader, tanner ones in her distress, and conscious of the action, she released her hold. “If you know nothing, might you aid us in the search?” she pleaded. “Or, rather…” She paused in agitated contemplation.

“Rather, it is not Iago for whom I fear as much as I do Emilia.” Her clear, pale eyes betrayed a watery concern for her friend, and her brow wrinkled apprehensively. “I should think that Iago fares well; perhaps he has simply gone to perform some task and forgotten to announce his leaving--but poor Emilia, I believe she dreads some grave occurrence, though I know not what.”

  
  



	67. ForAll I Know Or Care

Cassio frowned at Desdemona's news, and cast a curious glance towards the gardens from whence Desdemona had presumably come. A marble bench, distant to his keen eyes, was nestled in an alcove of the Citadel wall, and in faith, the gentle Emilia sat upon it, her head in her hands as though all the weight of the world rested upon her slim shoulders. Indeed, Desdemona was right to feel concern for her....

...But for Iago...though it was not in his nature to feel malice of any sort towards anyone, Cassio could not help the sheer  _ lack _ of alarm he felt at the news of the ensign's apparent disappearance. If the man had for himself a death wish, and was not troubled by causing his wife distress...Cassio saw no need to trouble himself with the man's affairs. He did not deserve his attention or aid.

"I fear I cannot be of much help to you," he said, his tone apologetic even as his thoughts were not...well, he was sorry that he could not ease Emilia's anguish. That was all. "I have not seen Iago since...early afternoon yesterday, I believe. He may well be on the far side of the city for all I know." ... _ Or care _ . 

Still...pity for the two women moved him to compassion, and he laid one hand comfortingly upon Desdemona's china-pale arm, warm through the sky-blue fabric of her gown. "I may, however, be able to impart this news to Emilia, for the sake of her peace of mind...if she is amenable to my company, of course."

Likely Emilia's fears were unfounded. Still, if some grave mischance had occurred...in faith, that would not be so well...but neither was it so great a detriment, either....

  
  



	68. Heart-Wrenching Apprehension

Desdemona nodded and began to lead him over, though she doubted that Cassio’s information would do anything to ease Emilia’s pains. She was not quite sure how best to comfort Emilia, as it was usually Emilia who comforted her, and Desdemona felt that she had not the merit to help Emilia when she herself had never known such a heavy burden as that Emilia now bore. Perhaps Cassio would be able to do something… She hoped so.

Emilia lifted her head but slightly as Desdemona returned, hand in hand with Cassio. Upon seeing the lieutenant, she incontinently straightened herself, obviously hoping that he had something to say--but Desdemona knew he could tell her nothing. Poor, sweet Emilia! Desdemona was so moved by the anguished look on her face that she immediately sat down beside her on the bench, wrapping her arms delicately about the woman and resting her blond head upon Emilia’s shoulder. Emilia seemed not to notice the action, her eyes focused solely on Cassio.

“Do you know where he is?” Emilia asked in a quiet voice that wavered under the weight of heart-wrenching apprehension. It was all she uttered, and after the few words she fell silent, as if she had not the strength to continue speech. Her eyes were wide, her brows drawn, her complexion pallid, a flashing in her gaze like that of a spooked animal--but she did not look as if she would cry. It was as if all possible tears had been suctioned from her, leaving her with naught but an intense, unnervingly disquiet look.

  
  



	69. The Bearer Of Ill News

Emilia's countenance-- skin ghostly pale, eyes and hair slightly wild, expression devoid of either grief or hope-- perturbed Cassio greatly, and he gave Desdemona a concerned glance as he seated himself beside the lady: carefully, as though she would shatter at any sudden movement of his. 

Truly, it was very nearly frightening to witness Emilia in such a vulnerable state. She who had always been so strong, so calm and steadfast, to be brought so low by this haunting fear for one who merited it not...it was sickening, deserving of all the pity he had within him to give. 

Hating that he had to be the bearer of ill news, Cassio placed one hand reassuringly upon her arm, rubbing it gently in a vain attempt to soothe her as he prepared himself to speak. "I do not," he replied, his voice low and hushed with sadness on this valiant woman's behalf. "But...do not fear, my lady. Surely all will be well...but I pray you.... If the thought does not grieve you overmuch, will you tell me of aught that may have transpired betwixt the two of you yesternight? I cannot think that Iago would make the same error two nights running...." If he had indeed done harm to Emilia again, running away in cowardice in the aftermath...Cassio could only pray he would soon be found, that justice could be swiftly, mercilessly meted out.

  
  



	70. She Wondered

Emilia immediately recognized his meaning, and she frowned at him, as if she had just been accused. “He did not treat me ill-favoredly, if that’s what you mean,” she told him sternly, removing his hand from her arm dispassionately. “Faith, he simply made certain that I was all right, and then bid me let him leave with the promise that he would return--which I am confident he will, by the way.”

She felt Desdemona tense slightly upon hearing the crossness in her voice, and Emilia regretted speaking so haughtily, but could it be helped? Perhaps she did not speak the entire truth to Cassio, for Iago had shouted at her, and seemed horribly unwell, that was true; but she could not see the merit in speaking her heart so freely to the lieutenant.

She wondered if it would not have been better for her to keep their dark secret from the Moor. She wondered if that was what Iago wished she would have done. She wondered if, had she kept her lips sealed, Iago would not have left without a word of his destination or his return. She wondered if, even now, she could be certain of her husband’s life… Worse still, suppose that he lived and had simply left, never to return.  _ There _ was a frightening prospect, and it chilled her heart to the core…

She was overreacting. There was nothing to fear. It was yet morning; perhaps Iago would be back ere noon. He  _ had _ to be.

“Please, lieutenant,” Emilia urged suddenly, with cool cordiality, “if you are so unmoved by my absence of my husband, perhaps you will be moved to remove yourself hence.”

  
  



	71. HeWould Not Leave Her Thus

"I...forgive me, my lady," Cassio gasped, slightly stunned by the depth of frigid acrimony present in the forced gentility of Emilia's tone. "I meant you no disrespect...." 

Truly, Emilia seemed so stung, so hurt by his mere suggestion of Iago's repeated mistreatment of her, that Cassio was (perhaps against his better nature) inclined to believe that she spoke true, that she did not weave lies in the name of devotion or duty. Besides, whether or not he believed her, the lady was visibly distraught, with a changeful, ever-present fear casting shadows in her luminous eyes. 

Cassio could very nearly see Emilia's thoughts racing within those eyes: she feared for her husband, for his life; she feared that he might never return, and had made his promises merely to offer some empty measure of reassurance. She was insurmountably grateful to Desdemona for her comforting presence, and all but resented Cassio that he remained so unmoved....

Still, he would not leave her thus; he was not Iago, abandoning a woman in distress for some selfish pursuit. Ignoring her look of icy protest, Cassio wrapped his strong arms about her narrow frame, and placed a consoling kiss upon her cheek. 

"Though I cannot profess to be much moved, my lady, neither could I bear to remove myself when you are clearly pained. I am not so cruel." Trailing off, looking into Emilia's belligerent eyes, Cassio heaved a sigh, knowing that his statement would do little to cast him in a favorable light...though conscience nearly chafed at it, he would have to ease Emilia's tension another way. "Pray tell, when did you last see your husband? Hours are critical in dictating how far a man can go."

  
  



	72. For Iago's Sake

It was peculiarly uncomfortable to be in such intimate physical contact with Cassio, who embraced her solidly and laid a kiss upon her cheek. It brought to mind those dangerous thoughts Emilia had had the morning before: not quite lustful thoughts, but not chaste ones either. Of course Emilia desired to be held thus, in such warm security; ay, and  _ kissed _ \--she could not deny it. But at this moment, the only man she wanted to see was Iago,  _ her  _ Iago--even if she sometimes thought her own husband could not deign to touch her, let alone embrace her.

With a small sigh, Emilia offered a slight, strained smile and graciously unraveled herself from Cassio’s arms. “He left me last night...it was, perhaps, nigh eight of the clock. Pray forgive me, but I do not think there is anything to be gleaned from this information, good lieutenant. But he promised me he would be back.”

She wondered how many times she had repeated the fact aloud, and began to feel self-conscious for it. The thought of Iago’s promise continuously resurfaced in her mind, several times a minute; surely it had escaped her lips more than twice.

Emilia looked aside to find that Desdemona was squeezing her hand. “Perhaps, Emilia, we might seek my lord,” she suggested gently, her voice that of a guardian angel’s. “Haply he may know something regarding your husband…?”

“Mm…” Emilia murmured softly. Most likely, the Moor would be able to tell them nothing except that Iago had been relegated from the position of ensign...and that was no help. She already knew that, and was loath to hear it told to her again... But perhaps she might ask the general, once more, if nothing could be done regarding the demotion. For Iago’s sake.

  
  



	73. In Tenor Of Thought

Emilia was visibly uneasy in his embrace, and Cassio recognized, chagrined, that in her distraught state, she would not be at all amenable to any advances from aught other than the man she yearned to see. ...Though he lamented her perspicuously deluded state, he could not fault her the slight; the lady wished for facts, not consolation. 

"I agree with the lady Desdemona," he said softly, conveying with his eyes and voice the concern and warmth his hands were denied providing. "Haply Othello may be more knowledgeable regarding this affair than we are here. Besides the which, you must agree that four minds are better pressed to seek truth than three...especially if one is so closely bound by brotherhood to that of whom we seek."

He spoke of the general, of course; Othello and Iago seemed, at times, so alike in tenor of thought and plan that Cassio would not be surprised to learn that they could read the mind of the other. Still...perhaps that held not so now. He knew not of what had transpired in Othello's office after Emilia had left it, but he could guess; he was no fool. If Othello had found Iago guilty of his accused crimes...well, the man was a harsh judge, and did not tolerate indecency of any sort among his troops. Close as their friendship had been, Cassio would not be at all surprised if that bond were severed now. 

  
  



	74. Four Minds

“Well...I suppose you are right,” Emilia sighed. Four minds! She could not help but wonder what Iago would think of all this. Ordinarily, Emilia would simply have been grateful that there were so many individuals who were willing to lend her assistance in her distress, but all she could think of was Iago. The man valued his privacy; he would hardly appreciate the fact that anyone was getting involved with his affairs besides Emilia. The more time that passed, the more Emilia felt that Iago’s departure was her fault, and she could not stop analyzing everything she did to see if she was doing something wrong. It was disgusting, really, that she was viewing and valuing herself through this twisted glass of wifely subservience--but at this moment she could not free herself of her anxieties.

So Iago would not want her to worry anyone with his own business. But what choices did she have? If Iago had not wanted Emilia to seek help, he simply should have made the information regarding his return more clear to her. This was the only logical response to his absence; surely he had wit enough to recognize that.

“I will seek conference with the general,” Emilia announced, with more resolve in her voice than she had had before. “And this time my lady shall come with me, so that I needn’t worry she shall be left in the company of indecorous clowns again,” she added dryly, standing up and addressing Cassio in a tone that imported their parting. “Thank you, lieutenant. I understand that you mean well, but…”

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. She regretted her blunt behavior towards Cassio, but she could not make herself believe that he had been of any help to her these past couple of days. Still, she permitted him a smile, for she sensed that he might be a little slighted by her impoliteness.

“...We must away,” she said finally, patting Desdemona protectively on the shoulder. “Farewell, gentle Cassio.”

  
  



	75. Fragile As Glass

"Farewell," Cassio replied, his smooth voice betraying only a hint of the surprise he felt at Emilia's callous resolve. "I hope fortune favors you more with Othello's knowledge than it did with mine." 

**************

_ “And this time my lady shall come with me, so that I needn’t worry she shall be left in the company of indecorous clowns again....” _ Though she was loath to admit it, Emilia's words rankled Desdemona slightly, though she immediately chastised herself for the sentiment. In faith, her friend was fast in the grip of ignorance's despair...but did that really merit speaking of the young woman as though she were a child, unable to be left alone for fear of being tainted and made impure by the words and deeds of vile miscreants walking abroad?

She did not think so...but then, it was cruel to fault Emilia for aught she said or did now. Poor woman: her thoughts and judgements were not clear, centered on worry as they were. After all, would not Desdemona herself be thrown into a similar state of woe if her beloved Othello were to go missing thus?

_ Indeed, pity the woman! _ she thought, vehement in her friend's defense.  _ Treat her gently, for her heart is even now fragile as glass.... _ So she followed Emilia willingly, praying with all her heart's strength that her husband would know  _ something _ , anything...for Emilia's sake. 

"My lord will be of help to you, I am sure of it," she murmured quietly, offering Emilia a watery semblance of a reassuring smile as her friend's calloused hand warmed her slight shoulder. "Do not fear, Emilia. All will yet be well." She could only hope she spoke true....

  
  



	76. Wits Unraveled

Desdemona’s soft voice was calming to Emilia; though her words were admittedly just as empty as Cassio’s had been, they were able to somewhat soothe her spirits. “Thank you, madam,” she answered in musing thankfulness. “Your concern is very much appreciated.”

She did not know for sure where the general might be at this moment, but yesterday around this time he had been within the Citadel, discussing military plans with his men. It was like enough that he would be there today. Who knew, perhaps Iago would be there too! Emilia began to hurry her steps.

...Nay, nay, he would not. Judging from Iago’s conduct last night, the man would be loath to partaking in any discussion with the Moor, military or otherwise. The thought of Iago’s recent behavior worried her still. For as long as she had known him he had been calculating, self-possessed, interminably ambitious. His wits seemed to be unraveled as of late… She wished that she had not let him leave so easily.

Glancing at Desdemona as they reached the stately, deep chestnut doors of the main chamber, Emilia knocked to see if there was anyone within. If the general was not, perhaps there might be someone who could direct her to him.

  
  



	77. Some Help Of Mine

Buckling his sword belt snugly as he strode through the vast atrium of the Citadel, Othello could not keep an expression of bemusement from his face as the sound of the knock upon the doors reached his ears. Strong it was, to be heard from all this way, yet hesitant, too...not a man's self-assured request of entry, but a woman's gentler plea. 

It was not Montano then, though Othello had been expecting the governor and his congress this day, to review those plans that had even yesterday been amended. Besides, someone would have warned him of the imminent arrival of so renowned a petitioner...and, in faith, a woman would have no place by that obdurate gentleman's side, be he in state or no. 

Perhaps it was his Desdemona...but...nay. She, though bold of spirit and heart, had not once dared, in their four days of commission, to venture within the sound walls of the Citadel; she liked not the violence and secrecy of war, or aught withal. She would be with the good Emilia even now, until he could return once more to her loving embrace by night's near-welcome fall. 

Nodding to his sentries in a manner but slightly perturbed, Othello pushed the barred doors wide, letting in the gray morning's light and chill breeze yet edged with damp...only to find that same light blocked, by two figures that stood expectantly before it. To his shock, the slight form of his beloved wife was indeed one...and the other, taller and narrower, a veritable tempest shadowing her face, was Emilia, looking disconcertingly relieved at the sight of him. 

"How now?" he exclaimed, moving forward to kiss Desdemona upon the lips (and ignoring the sentries' glances as he did so) and bowing cordially to the (former) ancient's wife. "What brings you here? Are you ladies in need of some help of mine...?"

  
  



	78. In Spirits Altered

“Good my lord,” Emilia greeted hastily as she dipped herself in curtsy. “I beg of you to pardon our intrusion, though I am aware it is quite an impropriety unbonneted to disturb your lordship thus.” Despite her state of disquiet, she knew it would do little good if she did not exercise courtesy, and she met his eyes with a kind of firm diplomacy. She wished, somewhat, that she could be alone in the Moor’s company to discuss this matter. But seeing as she was not, she did not want to look insecure in her conduct, and therefore made no effort to hush her own voice.

“I think that you did...er...hold discourse with my husband yesterday,” she said tacitly, hoping he would know her meaning. “But forgive me, that is not the reason I came--at least not directly.” She looked down and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Last night Iago was not my bedfellow, and he left our chamber in, I think, spirit altered, for he was not himself. My lord, he was much…” Emilia faltered, not knowing how to describe the state Iago had been in when he had left her. 

“...Unsettled,” she decided. “Mayhap a bit disoriented. He left me with the promise of his return, but I find that he has not yet appeared. I fear that some misfortune has befallen him; though there be no proof of such, I fear nonetheless. Surely you understand, my lord. If you know aught regarding his whereabouts, or if you can host a search… I would be most indebted to your graciousness. And one more importunity of my heart that I might express…”

Emilia paused. Would it be meet to speak of Iago’s demotion now? She did not want to trouble the general with more than one thing at a time. At this moment, it was more important that Iago be found--if he was gone, his military rank mattered not.

“...Ah--never mind it,” Emilia amended, inclining her head in mild self-reproach. “That’s of no import. But Iago, my lord… I pray he soon be discovered.”

  
  



	79. Importunity Of Your Heart

Othello frowned as Emilia spoke, her grave words tempering his heart even to the very quality of her palpable despair. That Iago had gone missing...that was not so well. And if Emilia had yet another importunity left unvoiced; why, that was worse....

What heavy misfortunes had befallen this couple yesternight? In faith, Othello was not so heartless as to be left unmoved by Emilia's plea.... No matter what altercations had transpired but one afternoon past, no matter how unseemly and unjust Iago's conduct had been...to turn from one who had even been his closest friend...it was not in his nature. Even less meet was it for him to leave the man's innocent wife caught in the throes of anguished oblivion, visibly penitent for a deed whose doing had not been hers....

Besides the which, her descriptions discomfited him greatly; 'unsettled' and 'disoriented' were not words he would ever think to attribute to his former ancient...although the latter had been apt yesterday, surely.... Therefore Othello worried, and could see reason in Emilia's plea for a search...though he was loath to spare his men for the doing, it had to be done. 

"I see your concern," he said, placing one reassuring hand upon Emilia's arm, meeting her weary, tear-reddened eyes in earnest resolve, feeling his heart crack and melt in sympathy for her obvious plight. "Though I admit I know naught of where Iago might have gone, I will certainly come with you to aid you in your search, and will send for a party to look for him in places we do not go."

Turning to call to one of the couriers, Othello paused briefly, and turned back to Emilia, calling her later words to mind even as he summoned the page from the far side of the room. 

"And while we go," he said, "you can tell me that other importunity of your heart which plagues you so, yes?"

  
  



	80. His Promise

Smiling gratefully, Emilia clasped her hands together. “I humbly thank you for your generosity, my lord. And...yes, I shall try your generosity again, if you think it good. But you have done enough for me already.” She inclined her head modestly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea where might be,” she admitted. “I have not set foot outside the fortress since the day we arrived; I know this city not, my lord.” She paused, sensing the undue weight she had given to the whole matter...Iago might still return yet. How humiliating would it be, if they should find him just as he was heading back? Her husband would surely find her folly disgusting. She was not fain to meet his displeasure again…

Oh, fie. Iago would take displeasure with her no matter what she did. At least in this case she was acting against him in the name of her concern, and not out of defiance. But still…

“Do you think, my lord, that we might wait a little before embarking on a search…?” she asked, somewhat tentatively. “In case he happens to return.”

She did not know if she had the strength or the patience to wait; she was desperate to know how Iago fared… But perhaps she might allow him one last chance before deciding to disbelieve his promise…

  
  



	81. Matters Of The Heart

"Of course we may wait," Othello replied, though he hesitated a bit in the doing. Truth be told, he was not so certain that delaying this search was a wise course of action. He knew Iago well, and thus knew that the man was always punctual, no matter the circumstances. For him not to be so now, after having been dealt what Othello knew to be a crushing blow (as such relegation would have been to any man, whether he merited the castigation or not)...'twas mightily worrisome.

...And yet, he had to remind himself that what that he had thought to be truth was even now proven false as water. To be not aware of Iago's duplicity, of the violence and near-bipolarity hidden within his nature...in faith, he knew his friend not so well as he had first thought. 

If he forced himself to recall that new revelation once more to mind, he could force himself to feel less of guilt at dallying...though the practice still boded ominous, if only for Emilia's visible grief and torment...though she  _ had _ been the one to suggest they wait. Her faith in her husband was admirable...but was it not misplaced? Othello had had faith in the man, as well...what had that wrought? Dishonesty? Misconduct? Treachery? Would not Emilia be duped and broken in the same way...?

_ Enough _ , he told himself firmly.  _ You make large grievances out of slight errors. _ They said absence made the heart grow fond, when it was wrought of love...when it was wrought of altercation and strife, it evidently evinced greater bitterness than the situation first merited. After all, he  _ had _ agreed to consider a pardon, had he not? It was not forgiveness, it was not trust renewed, but it  _ was _ concession. An easing of burdens. ...Was it not?

Let her have her faith, then. Emilia was an intelligent woman; for all her devotion, she was neither blind nor passive, and if she chose to place her trust in such a man...Othello had no place in judging matters of the heart. 

So he would wait. "Tell the men at the training grounds to meet me here in a half hour's time," he told the courier he had summoned, his tone grave. Turning back to Emilia, mindful not to reveal too much of yesterday's unhappy events within Desdemona's delicate hearing, he added, "We will give Iago that time to return. If he does not, we will scour the city for him if need be."

  
  



	82. Thorns

Emilia nodded absently as the general spoke, unsure if she still liked the idea of waiting. She was torn in two different directions: she wanted to trust Iago, wanted to believe that he would return of his own accord just as he had said--yet she also wanted to see him as soon as she could, did not want to waste a single second of time, lest she suffer some unknown consequence for it… As she gave the Moor her silent approval, she did not know if the approval came from her heart. But it would do no good to take back what she had just said; the Moor had already issued the command; if she contradicted herself now she would only make herself look the fool.

A half hour, in her distress, seemed to be a measure of time horribly drawn out. What could she do to occupy herself during this goodly wait? Marry, she had to do  _ some _ thing…

“...Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss my other point, seeing as we are not to leave directly,” Emilia said presently, but she glanced toward her lady with a degree of self-consciousness.

If Desdemona knew of Iago’s demotion, surely she would want to know  _ wherefore  _ he had been thus dismissed...and that was not information that Emilia would fain have disclosed to her. It was not that Emilia trusted her not--good faith, she would lay her very soul upon Desdemona’s life!--but that she did not want to trouble her. Or  _ anyone _ , for that matter… She suspected that Cassio already worried for her; he might happily advise Emilia stay away from her husband.

But no one understood Iago the way she did! Iago was not a villain, tormented as he was by the devils of his own nature and creation--he was not! She had spent so many years as his confidant; by his side she had transformed from the newly-wedded girl of the spring to the wisdom-ripened woman of the autumn. Mothers had their sons, daughters their fathers, sisters their brothers; she had Iago. Her own life was so closely knit with Iago’s, like a rosebush that slowly intertwined itself up its trellis over the passing years, that even though she knew she was now fraught with thorns and trapped within her beautiful prison, she feared she would be ripped stem from bloom and leaves from stalk if she ever lost him.

And--! Was it not true that the rosebush was not yet done blooming? Someday--yea, she dared believe it!--someday, all things would be mended between Emilia and her husband! It  _ had _ to be true--indeed, how could it not, when she had played the gardener and tended to the withering garden so oft; did her best to ensure it lacked no water--ay, watered it with her own blood, sweat, and tears, she did!--and torn down every wall she could to make sure it was not shaded from the sun by which it might thrive--! She had worked so hard, sacrificed so much--surely it was impossible that all of it could go to naught! She would reap that which she had sown; it was her due! It was owed her! If the fruits of her labor never appeared, if they shriveled on the branches...why then, she might as well give up all she had worked for and lay herself down in the dirt to be eaten up by worms.

With terrific embarrassment, Emilia became conscious once more of the existing world around her. By heaven, she was as mad as her mad husband! Tears were streaming down her cheeks now; she shook like a trembling willow in an unforgiving gale. Thoroughly ashamed by the state she was in, Emilia hid her face in her hands, not wanting to see any of the faces in the room.

  
  



	83. Distress

Othello could hear the self-conscious concern in Emilia's voice as she spoke, and saw clearly the discomfited look she aimed at Desdemona, as though her words were not meant for such tender ears as her lady's. Though he hated to be parted from his wife, he turned to her nonetheless, making ready to bid her go to their chambers for a time...but his eyes were drawn not to Desdemona's china features, no, but to Emilia: weeping, trembling, distraught Emilia....

Was she truly so deep in worry that to wait even a little would cause such distress? Or did she weep for other causes: weariness, or sorrow...or even love? In faith, her look did import them all; it was as though she fought with some terrible monster in her thought, daring not to show it, and failing miserably in the doing....

Carefully, as one would approach a wild animal caught in a snare, Othello placed a hand upon Emilia's shoulder, feeling the warmth of her body beneath the rough fabric of her gown, forcing her to look up from her hands to meet his eyes.

  
"Are you well, Emilia?" he asked gently, mouthing the word  _ chair _ at the courier who yet stood beside him, awkward in his observance of this affair. The man hurried off, relieved, and the general turned back to the tearful woman, placing his hands upon her thin cheeks yet shadowed, catching her tears in his palms. "What is it that has you so moved? I cannot beg you speak of your other point of contention if the very thought distresses you so."


	84. Cause For Panic

First Cassio, and now the Moor… At any other time, Emilia would not have minded overmuch if a man made skin-to-skin contact with her, but now, she was only reminded of the one man whose touch she did not have. She modestly withdrew herself from Othello’s hands, bowing her head to him respectfully as she did. She found that she could not lift her gaze from the floor.

“...I am well, thank you,” she murmured, aware that there was little conviction in her tone. She would not allow herself to voice her inner monologue, her tortured thoughts; no, it was not meet nor appropriate for anyone to know but she. But she also could not lie, so she simply told a part of the truth and no more than that. It was, however, a part of the truth that came from deep within her heart.

“To be honest, my lord,” she began quietly, and then paused. “...O, but it’s folly, though my fears think otherwise. To be honest...he seemed so, ah...affected last night by, em...recent events, that as he left me I almost had a premonition that he was about to--to drown himself.” It sounded ridiculous aloud, though she just barely whispered the last few words, and Emilia still had not looked in any direction other than at the floor. She was making the situation seem more dire than it really was...or was she? That was just the thing--she did not  _ know _ if she had cause for panic, or none at all.

She allowed herself to glance up a little, in an attempt to gauge the Moor’s reaction to this confession, and perhaps find in it a guide as to how she should feel. If he simply looked sympathetic toward her, why then, surely he did not think there was anything to fear. But if he looked genuinely concerned...well. She did not want to think about that.

  
  



	85. One Most Recent Blow Of Many

" _ What? _ " Othello repeated, unable to quite comprehend the words Emilia had even now spoken. Iago, about to  _ drown himself _ ? In faith, 'twas unthinkable...for one so composed, so resilient, to be brought so low by one most recent blow of many...was he truly to believe that his proffered sentence had been so deleterious to the man's state of mind...? "Speak you in earnest?" 

So muddled were his thoughts at that moment, so grievously turbulent, that he could not bear to give voice or coherence to any of them. Instead, he turned, mechanically, to Desdemona, who stood some distance away, a look of distraught perplexity marring her delicate, beautiful features. Good God...she knew naught of what had transpired, not now or yesterday...was it not cruel, to keep her here, subject to this turmoil in which she had no place to worry herself?

"Desdemona," he said gently, travailing to cast his glance anywhere but upon Emilia. "I pray you, chuck, return to our chambers for now; I will send for Michael to escort you. You need not trouble yourself with this matter...."

Dire this situation was, indeed. He had retained faith afore, that Iago would not be too much grieved by his punishment, for it was justly gotten...but he had failed in that consideration...utterly, it seemed. If he had been that distraught, and Emilia so heartily concerned now...truly, it was cause for alarm, and he knew he could not keep that anxiety from his face as he guided Emilia to the newly-retrieved chair and whispered to the now put-upon courier to fetch Cassio hither.

  
  



	86. He Would Never

“I cannot say that I speak in earnest, nor can I say that I speak what I think. I do but speak what I fear,” Emilia answered, her eyes slowly widening. Othello’s reaction frightened her, for he did not seem to think that she was being overly preposterous. She almost felt as though she had made her fears come true in the simple act of speaking them. 

“And a worried wife will fear much more than should be her wont, will she not?” she added, with a small laugh that almost choked her in its fallacy. “I am sure he is fine… He would not do such a thing.”

She envisioned Iago then, his hands gripped tightly over her shoulders, that hopeless, wild look in his eyes, the acerbic timbre in his voice as he demanded her not to insult him with her sympathy when she was so incapable of understanding the depth of his emotion. That night, she had looked into the eyes of a man who seemed entirely willing to do  _ anything _ , or else completely demotivated to ever do anything again.

Emilia shook her head slowly as she sank down into the chair, and ran her fingers through her hair in a mechanical, coping movement. “He would not,” she repeated. “Do you not think so?” She looked to the general, unaware of the desperately pleading expression on her countenance. “He would never.”

  
  



	87. Not So Well (As Once I Did)

Othello could not bring himself to look upon Emilia, could not force his eyes to meet her sorrowed countenance as she pleaded with him. " _ Do you not think so? _ ," she asked, but how was he to know? How was he now to judge what was true and what was false?

He brought one hand to his brow in grave contemplation, taking note but slightly when Cassio entered the atrium. The lieutenant eyed Emilia's huddled, desperate form with no small amount of trepidation, but he approached steadily, as though he knew precisely Othello's purpose in summoning him.

"Michael, I do beseech you," he said softly, offering his young wife an apologetic glance as he did, "escort Desdemona back to our chamber, if you will, that I may beg discourse with Emilia alone."

"Of course," the young man replied, taking Desdemona's arm, though her eyes protested vehemently the gesture.

"My lord--" she began, but Othello pressed one tender kiss to her lips before parting from her, praying that she would understand.

"Go," he insisted. "I will tell you all I can at some later time."

Their departure, slow in Desdemona's hesitance, afforded time to think more upon Emilia's anguished query...though truly, he knew not what answer to give that would in any way ameliorate her distress. 

"Truly, I should not think such desperate measures would even cross his mind," he murmured. "And yet...if what you say is true, I then fear that some unhappy mischance may truly have befallen him. Loath I am to believe that Iago would let such a deed destroy him so utterly, but then...." Bitterly, his tone laced with no small amount of a countering sorrow, he trailed off into silence, casting a dark gaze upon the ground in consternation. "Perhaps I know him not so well as I once did."

  
  



	88. Guilt And Shame

Othello’s confession startled her somewhat, for she recognized the feeling of uncertainty that he expressed. Sometimes Iago felt like an utter stranger to her, as long as she had known him. But only yesterday morn, he had revealed some of his innermost struggles to her, had he not? How was it that the bonds between the two of them could warp and mend, mend and warp so changeably within the course of a few days?

“I...cannot speak of that,” Emilia said faintly. “Whether you know him or I know him--sometimes I hardly think he knows himself. But, my lord--I cannot believe that he is not a good man. Do not look upon me so doubtingly!” she cried, without even looking to see if there was indeed doubt in the Moor’s expression. “There is no man that is entirely good; that is a fact I have had proven to me many times o’er--but whether he is a villainous man in possession of some good qualities, or a good man in affliction with some sinful tendencies--I durst swear he is the latter.” Her impassioned oaths were no good without proof, and she thought back to the event that had caused all of this.

“I will not deny that he laid hand upon me. But I did much to anger him, my lord,” she insisted, hating her words, for she did not entirely believe them--but she wanted to bring Iago back into the general’s favor, if she could not bring him back into her arms. “I called him a coward, a knave--it was but a foolish quarrel, but I stepped out of place and threw such terms upon him as the situation did not merit. I provoked him, my lord, and he was both tired and spent by the course of the day. And after the deed had been done, he felt such remorse for it, but, I think, did not wish to show it lest it be thought a weakness--but he tended to my hurts and, faith, he could not bear to look my way for his guilt and shame.”

Emilia sighed softly. “Perhaps I cannot change what has been settled by your lordship, and if so I will not try, for I know my place. But, my lord, if I can persuade you that his deeds are not a direct indication of his character...I will consider it a satisfaction.”

  
  



	89. Temperance

Othello sighed heavily as Emilia spoke, her impassioned importunities telling him only what his own heart so longed to believe, no matter his rational mind's protestations. She spoke true; not all men could be wholly good nor bad, and it was not his place to fault that which nature deemed inevitable....

...But was not nature, and primal instinct, instilled into the souls of men to be countered with temperance? Could not one exercise some measure of control, to refrain from the injury of those loved and cherished? Even had Emilia truly angered Iago, provoked him into violence as she claimed, the man was still to be held accountable for what was, without doubt, a grave crime. For a man to strike his wife, to whom he had bound himself to protect...in faith, Othello would not think to do such a deed for all the world! 

Had reason failed his old friend, that he had been unable to cool his raging motions that fateful night? Had it returned to him unbidden, drawing from him a remorse apparently fit to rend the soul asunder? Was that why Emilia defended him as she did; why she took the blame for actions beyond her feasible control? 

For a woman-- an abused woman, no less-- to assume culpability for such an offense...'twas pitiful, monstrous pitiful. Remorse and penitence and care for wounds wrought by the abuser's own hand were no redemption for the transgression, and it was not right that Emilia should ever think herself to be the cause, whether she had spoken fit to incense or not. To be punished for expressing a sentiment heartfelt...no. 'Twas no fault of hers. Temperance. That had been Iago's only necessary requisite...and he had failed in its execution. Utterly. 

"You speak from the heart," he said, words weighted with his soul's own sorrow. "And yet my acceptance of your pleas must be hesitant, for such deeds as your husband has perpetrated speak not well of his character, regardless of their inadvertence. Perhaps I only repeat what I have said before, but you should not think yourself the cause as you do...therefore I cannot forgive him so easily, for repentance must be proven, truly and incontestably proven, ere I would even consider some form of pardon for what remains a heinous act. You understand?"

  
  



	90. One Man Who Cared

Ay, she understood. She felt crushed, but she understood… She knew that the general was right, in every respect, though she fought to disbelieve it… She forced herself to nod her head.

  
  


“Is there nothing you can tell me, good Cassio?” Desdemona begged, her slender, white hands pressed around his own. Her look was truly one of trepidation, and Cassio wished that he could erase the fear from the beautiful face, but he did not want to betray Emilia. In faith, the lady already seemed to be a little impatient with him, and he wanted to keep friends with her.

“My apologies, lady,” Cassio said regretfully. “I hardly know more than you do.”

If Desdemona did not believe him, she did not show it. She gave a silent nod and opened the door to hers and Othello’s chamber. “If you see Emilia before I do, you must give her my reassurances,” she said, running her fingers over the doorknob, obviously not wanting to be sent away thus.

“I will, sweet lady.”

Desdemona slowly turned to go, but then she turned back, as if suddenly remembering something. “Cassio, do you profess yourself my friend?” she asked urgently.

“Of course I do!” Cassio answered immediately, somewhat surprised at the spontaneity of the question. “That is, if I deserve such an honor.”

“If you are my friend, Cassio, do all you can to help my poor Emilia,” Desdemona pleaded, not paying any mind to his last statement. “For Emilia is, to me, mother, sister, cousin...all. It grieves me so to see her thus.” Without warning, her voice gained a note of unprecedented boldness. “I would help her, if I could! I would search all of Cyprus to find her husband and bring him back to her. But my lord has relegated me to our chambers as a father does his daughter, and I must not disobey him. I trust that you will do what I cannot.”

“Of course, my lady,” Cassio assured her, bowing deeply. He was unsure of what exactly was expected of him, but letting Desdemona down was not an option. “I will do all I can.”

“Do, good lieutenant,” Desdemona said, a small smile coming back to her face. “I am indebted to you. Adieu.”

She closed the door and disappeared into the chamber. As Cassio walked back down the hall, he thought of Desdemona’s declaration of loyalty for Emilia. That she would search for Iago  _ herself  _ to cure Emilia of her distress, or at least claimed that she would! What empathy the lady had; surely she outdid Cassio in chivalry. As much as Cassio felt that Iago had not done much as of late to put himself in a favorable light, Emilia was truly troubled by his absence… And forsooth, it was quite out of character for Cassio to leave a damsel in distress.

He would search for Iago, then. That way Emilia would know that there was at least one man who cared about her.

  
  
  



End file.
